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JOHN  WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 


JOHN 

WINTERBOURNE'S 
FAMILY 

BY 

ALICE  BROWN 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN   COMPANY 
$re$£  Cambrib0e 
1910 


COPYRIGHT,    1910,    BY   ALICE   BROWN 
ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 

Published  October  iqio 


SECOND    IMPRESSION 


JOHN  WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 


228606 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S 
FAMILY 


i 

THE  old  Winterbourne  house,  one  of  New  England's 
ancientry,  stood  at  the  west  end  of  Clyde,  among 
other  noble  structures  of  an  equal  age,  some  of  them 
surrounded  by  spacious  grounds  and  looking  out  at  the  back 
upon  fields  sloping  down  to  the  Sutton  River.  Across  the 
river  was  Sutton  itself,  a  dozing  village.  Clyde  was  dignified, 
reminiscent  of  more  formal  customs,  and  yet  tolerant.  A  few 
of  its  estates  had  reached  an  admirable  degree  of  cultivation, 
with  terraces,  peony-topped,  and  arbors,  grape-entwined. 
These  soberly  attested  the  prosperity  of  owners  who,  shar 
ing  in  some  fashion  the  financial  life  of  the  day,  perhaps  went 
to  the  city  every  morning,  and  returned  at  night  to  the  con 
ventional  repose  of  a  proper  establishment.  Others  of  the  old 
houses,  belonging  still  to  the  best  families,  stayed  as  they 
had  been  twenty  or  more  years  ago,  in  an  untended  ease. 
The  shrubs  grew,  reached  their  limit,  and  were  allowed  to  de 
cline  into  a  natural  state.  The  perennials  in  green-lichened 
gardens  ran  out  and  were  not  renewed.  This  was  usually  when 
women-folk  had  inherited  and  acquiesced  in  the  unchanged 
state  of  things  as  they  had  been  when  there  was  an  active 
head  of  the  house,  they,  in  their  undefended  state,  being  too 
weak  to  cope  with  gardeners. 

The  Winterbourne  mansion,  large,  with  a  beautiful  line  of 
gambrel  roof,  had  been  vacant,  save  for  one  pensioner,  for  ten 


WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

years  and  over,  and  had  fallen  into  disrepair,  though  every 
last  thing  that  happened  to  it  seemed  only,  in  the  unpractical 
eye,  to  augment  its  charm.  The  shingles,  lichen-gray  and 
curled  like  lichens,  let  the  water  through  to  the  rotting  roof, 
and  that  again  transferred  the  ignominy  of  dark  brown  streaks 
and  patches  to  the  ceilings  :  so  that  Lydia  Pendleton,the  old 
servitor  who  had  lived  with  the  Winterbournes  of  three  gen 
erations  and  now  lodged  rent-free  in  the  house,  made  it  a  part 
of  her  duty,  in  northeast  storms,  to  set  pans  all  over  the  attic 
floor  to  catch  the  drip.  The  walls  cried  for  paint,  the  blinds 
were  racked  and  some  of  them  yawning,  and  the  repairs 
needed  without  would  have  caused  the  heart  of  the  carpenter  to 
leap  for  ecstasy.  But  to  the  eye  in  search  of  beauty  only,  of 
that  rich  mellowness,  the  child  of  time,  it  was  a  lovely  house, 
shaded  by  trees,  overgrown  of  vines,  and  with  never  a  line  in 
all  its  leaf-embowered  amplitude  which  was  not  obedient  to 
art. 

Three  years  ago,  John  Winterbourne,  the  owner,  and  last 
wearer  of  his  name,  had  come  home  and  settled  down  here 
with  only  Lyddy  to  make  his  household.  He  was  between 
forty  and  fifty,  a  man  who,  without  active  choice  of  his  own, 
had  lived  a  varied  life,  putting  a  finger  —  or  the  whole  hand, 
according  to  his  impetuous  way  —  into  cloth  and  paper,  and 
even  the  printing  of  books,  chiefly  because  work  was  not  done 
well  enough,  he  thought,  and  the  time  needed  his  irascible 
service  to  set  it  right,  and  withdrawing  from  trade  suddenly 
and  petulantly  also,  it  seemed,  to  this  tangled  retreat  and  the 
slovenly  ministrations  of  Lyddy,  who  had  so  long  considered 
the  house  her  own  shell  that  she  hardly  remembered  how  to 
vary  her  eccentric  system  of  work  for  anybody  else,  even  a 
revered  Winterbourne.  He  was  satisfied.  So  he  was  telling 
James  Trenton  Lovell,  his  chum  after  a  fashion,  on  a  night 
in  March  when  they  sat  together  by  the  fire  in  the  great  square 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY          5 

east  room,  which  had,  in  this  light,  a  stately  and  satisfying 
aspect.  The  paint  —  a  great  deal  of  it  on  wainscoting  and 
panels  —  had  turned  to  a  fine  ivory.  What  paper  there  was, 
an  old  French  design  of  castles  and  lovers  and  huntresses, 
showed  a  perfect  degree  of  preservation,  and  led  the  eye 
round  the  walls  through  changing  vistas  of  soft  blue  cloud 
and  castellated  height.  The  furniture  was  faithful  to  a  by 
gone  year  when  the  house  was  built,  —  dark-hued,  spindle- 
legged,  some  of  it  rich  in  carving  and  inlaid  borders.  All 
that  daylight  could  disclose,  the  subtle  look  of  long  neglect, 
the  dusk  hid  gracefully,  and  the  firelight,  playing  over  the 
picture  as  if  it  were  honorably  worth  disclosing,  touched  it 
with  a  sombre  charm. 

The  two  men  before  the  fire  sat  there  with  a  little  table 
between  them,  on  it  a  black  book  and  an  unlighted  lamp. 
The  book  was  the  Idyls  of  Theocritus.  John  Winterbourne 
was  a  scholar  of  richer  equipment  than  his  friend,  and  he  was 
accustomed  to  sit  here  and  read  Greek  aloud,  while  Lovell, 
with  a  frowning  brow  and  great  excitement,  followed  from 
another  copy. 

Winterbourne  was  a  great  fellow,  broad-shouldered, 
shaggy,  with  brown,  gray-streaked  hair  and  beard,  deep  lines 
in  his  forehead,  and  astonishing  eyes  set  under  bushy  brows. 
They  were  dark  eyes,  sometimes  hazel,  often  a  soft  brown  ; 
but  it  was  the  things  they  did  that  were  amazing.  They  found 
so  many  subjects  in  the  world  to  be  angry  with  that  they 
flashed  and  stared  the  unworthy  down ;  but  children,  as  the 
four  in  an  equally  shabby  house  at  the  other  end  of  the  vil 
lage  could  have  told,  found  them  inviting,  merry,  full  of 
light.  He  was  dressed  like  a  workman  of  some  unpretending 
sort,  in  dark  trousers  and  coat  and  a  blue  flannel  shirt  with  a 
collar  rolling  away  under  his  thick  beard.  His  hand  was  a 
workman's  hand,  square,  with  fingers  blunted  at  the  end,  the 


6          JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

sort  that  do  things  delicately,  and  with  a  fine  network  of 
muscle  on  the  lean  brown  back  of  them.  As  he  sat  idle  now, 
poring  over  the  fire,  they  were  folded  before  him  in  a  supple 
strength. 

Jim  Lovell,  his  friend  was  called  in  every-day  usage,  though 
when  he  had  served  as  consul  in  an  Italian  town  and  been 
returned  under  some  stigma  of  incapacity,  his  three-sectioned 
name  was  the  one  the  papers  bruited.  He  was  really  a  man  in 
middle  youth,  yet  from  some  nervous  lack  of  adaptability  to 
the  world,  a  way  of  refusing  its  conventional  favors,  a  timid 
ity  in  the  face  of  civilization,  an  ungracious  yet  involuntary 
way  of  rebuffing  the  kindest  offices  if  they  brought  mortal 
man  too  near,  he  seemed  to  be  not  more  than  a  decade 
behind  his  friend.  He  was  of  a  sanguine  type,  with  thick  hair 
very  much  alive  brushed  back  from  his  forehead  in  a  crown, 
quick  gray  eyes  like  a  wood-creature's  in  their  mobile  seek 
ing,  a  big  nose  and  a  very  desirable  mouth.  When  he  had 
a  mother  and  sister  to  comment  admiringly  on  his  beautiful 
mouth,  his  square  chin  with  the  dimple  in  it,  and  the  slen- 
derness  of  his  neck,  he  used  to  wear  a  beard ;  it  defended 
him  from  that  terrifying  certainty  of  being  out  in  the  world 
with  woman's  eyes.  But  now  his  immediate  women-kind 
were  dead,  and  as  nobody  praised  him  into  panic,  he  forgot 
some  of  his  timidities  and  went  shaven  because  he  felt 
cleaner  so. 

Winterbourne  was  speaking  in  his  musing  bass,  looking 
with  an  extreme  content  into  the  fire,  as  if  it  carried  his  eyes 
farther  yet  to  what  is  beyond  the  fire  and  beyond  the  world. 

"  This  life  suits  me,  Jim.  If  I  could  have  my  two  meals 
as  Lyddy  gives  'em  to  me,  and  my  pipe,  and  my  plunge  off 
the  wharf,  and  a  book  and  a  fire,  I  could  live  forever  and 
not  sicken." 

Lovell  looked  round  at  him  with  a  nod.   He  did  not  al- 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY  7 

together  agree.  He  had  not  his  friend's  type  of  robust 
health,  though  when  he  kept  the  rules  he  was  in  a  splendid 
poise  of  being ;  but  he  knew  the  more  delicate  variations  of 
nervous  life.  He  was  accustomed  to  fears  of  the  unsubstantial 
which  we  call  fate  or  fortune ;  he  knew  the  black  days  when 
we  rise  to  an  unfriendly  world  and  creep  shuddering  to  bed 
again,  under  the  dominion  of  an  organization  too  subtly 
poised.  But  these  things  he  had  taught  himself  to  consider 
his  destined  enemies,  as  actual  a  part  of  his  burden  of  life  as 
if  he  had  been  born  with  defective  senses.  At  last,  in  his  late 
twenties,  after  suffering  hideously  from  the  uneasy  certainty 
that  life  is  a  menace  to  the  soul,  forever  pushing  it  toward 
that  uncomprehended  variation  we  call  death,  he  had  de 
cided  to  let  his  brain  rule  him  and  not  his  fleeting  emotions. 
So  now  he  never  betrayed  his  fears  and  heart-sicknesses, 
nor  owned  to  them  within  himself 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  that  brief  nod,  "it's  a  good  life." 

Winterbourne  lighted  the  lamp  with  deftness,  and  then 
put  out  a  hand  to  the  book. 

"  Ready  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"Any  time." 

Winterbourne  rose,  and  was  taking  a  match  from  the 
mantel  safe,  when  there  came  a  thin,  jangling  ring  at  the  side 
door.  He  listened  an  instant,  frowning. 

"  What  fool  is  that,"  he  inquired,  "  coming  in  here  to  up 
set  our  work  ?" 

Lovell  also  listened.  This  extreme  miserliness  over  their 
sober  comfort  embroidered  with  the  imagery  of  Theocritus 
made  them  look  ludicrously,  each  to  the  other,  as  if  they 
were  in  a  state  of  siege.  Winterbourne  saw  it,  and  laughed 
loudly.  The  sound  ran  out  into  the  hall  and  over  the  house. 
It  might  have  come  from  some  shaggy-hided  satyr  in  the 
woods,  the  volume  of  it  was  so  rough  and  uncontrolled. 


8          JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  I  '11  answer  it,"  he  said.  "Lyddy  's  gone  to  bed  and 
sleep.  She  never  hears  anything  when  she's  off  this  floor; 
she  wouldn't  come  if  she  did." 

He  struck  the  match,  lighted  an  untidy  candle  in  a  noble- 
shaped  candlestick  on  the  mantel,  and  strode  with  it  into 
the  hall.  As  he  opened  the  door,  a  gust  swept  in,  a  wind 
risen  not  an  hour  ago.  When  he  had  settled  himself  by  his 
fire  that  night  it  had  been  still  and  cold,  and  now  the  sudden 
tempest  surprised  him  so  that  he  glanced  up  to  see  if  the  stars 
were  there  and  ask  them  what  they  thought  about  it.  The 
stars  were  there,  glittering  in  the  dark,  so  surprisingly  splen 
did  that  in  looking  at  them  he  forgot  to  guard  his  candle,  and 
the  gust  put  it  out.  Winterbourne  was  a  man  of  quick  rages 
over  small  things.  He  gave  himself  up  to  them  promptly, 
even  when  he  felt  them  coming ;  it  was  a  species  of  luxury 
where  the  blood  moved  fast  and  you  could  say  what  you 
liked,  and  exercise  the  savage  man  in  you.  Instantly  he  was 
furious  with  the  candle,  but  before  he  could  show  it,  a  miser 
able  voice,  a  woman's,  half-conciliatory,  half-impudent,  as 
if  she  had  primed  herself  for  a  speech  she  dreaded,  rose  from 
the  step  below  him. 

cc  Mr.  Winterbourne,  Cousin  Lyddy  Pendleton  said  you 
had  an  ear-trumpet." 

Winterbourne  was  recalled  from  the  stars  and  his  erring 
candle.  He  frowned  down  upon  a  small  figure  beneath  his 
level ;  with  the  wind  blowing  its  shawl,  it  seemed  to  be  com 
posed  of  wisps  and  tatters. 

"  Do  you  come  here  to-night  routing  me  out  of  my  sleep 
to  ask  me  if  I've  got  an  ear-trumpet  ?"  he  rolled  out  at  her. 

Lovell,  within,  hearing  the  tone,  wondered  at  it,  it  seemed 
so  to  fit  the  loftiest  passages  of  the  rhythmic  Greek.  He 
could  not  but  speculate  on  any  call  from  the  outer  world  that 
evoked  so  grand  a  declamation. 


JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY          9 

"  Woman !  "  ended  Winterbourne.  That  he  had  added 
with  a  large  simplicity.  He  did  not  know  her  name,  and  the 
title  seemed  to  him  permissible. 

"  Mercy!  "  said  she,  "  I  did  n't  think  you  'd  be  abed  as 
early  as  this." 

"  I  'm  not  abed,"  Winterbourne  declaimed,  and  she  was 
silent,  not  feeling  at  liberty  to  tell  him  that  he  had  just  of 
fered  something  pointing  that  way. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  do  you  want  to  see  Lyddy  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  she  returned  in  haste,  that  being  the  last  pos 
sibility  to  be  considered.  "  I  would  n't  see  her  for  anything 
in  the  world.  Lyddy  's  mother's  cousin.  They  don't  speak." 

"You  needn't  come  here  with  your  wars  and  rumors  of 
wars,"  said  Winterbourne.  "  Lyddy 's  all  right." 

"  Mebbe  she  is.  Mother's  been  terrible  tryin',  I  know. 
But  what  I  meant  was,  if  they  'd  been  speakin'  I  'd  done  it 
through  Lyddy." 

"  Woman ! "  said  Winterbourne  again,  liking  the  sound  of 
it  as  a  mouth-filling  word.  Then  he  remembered  Poe  inci 
dentally  and  that  it  had  been  a  tempestuous  night  when  he 
also  had  a  mysterious  visitant.  —  "c  Thing  of  evil,' "  he 
added,  in  his  way  of  trusting  to  dull  brains  to  lag  behind 
him,  and  not  caring  really  whether  they  did  or  not,  so  that  he 
enjoyed  the  exercise  of  lingual  vagaries,  "  do  you  want  to 
leave  Lyddy  a  message?  Is  that  it?" 

"  No,  sir,"  she  returned  earnestly.  "  I  just  wanted  to 
know  whether  you  'd  got  an  ear-trumpet." 

"Well,  then,  I  have,"  said  Winterbourne.  "Now  what 
have  you  got  to  say  ?  " 

She  seemed  to  break  up  in  a  panic  of  nervous  apprehen- 
.sion. 

"O  Mr.  Winterbourne,"  she  said,  and  between  her 
trepidation  and  the  chill  of  the  wind  her  teeth  chattered, 


io        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S  FAMILY 

"  mother  has  n't  heard  a  word  for  'most  nine  years.  That  is, 
except  we  scream.  Then  she  can,  when  there  ain't  too  much 
noise.  Ever  so  long  ago  Lyddy  told  mother  you'd  made  a 
trumpet,  an'  she  was  goin'  to  borrow  it  an'  see  if  mother 
could  use  it;  an'  then  she  an'  mother  fell  out,  so  of  course 
we  couldn't  accept  it  of  her.  But  now  we  're  goin'  to  move 
to  Sacker's  Falls  —  we're  goin' right  off  this  week  —  an* 
Lyddy  couldn't  help  herself  if  I  come  to  you.  So  I  come  to 
ask  you  about  your  trumpet." 

Winterbourne  stood  before  her  in  silence,  and  if  she  had 
known  him  in  the  least  she  would  have  seen  that  a  mingling 
tide  —  anger  at  her  because  she  was  out  in  the  cold  on  such 
an  idiotically  chosen  night,  an  unwilling  sympathy  for  her 
mother  who,  he  felt,  might  have  remained  deaf  in  seclusion 
without  sending  here  to  waken  his  futile  sorrow,  and  plain 
disgust  because  people  always  did  choose  such  incorrect  ways 
of  doing  business  —  all  this  had  swept  him  to  the  rostrum 
where  he  was  likely  to  break  out  terrifically.  But  while  he 
waited,  bottling  his  wrath,  she  spoke  again,  in  trembling. 

"You  seej  Mr.  Winterbourne,  we  heard  'twas  so  elegant 
we  knew  'twould  be  a  high  price,  an'  we  couldn't  afford  to 
put  much  money  into  it,  —  an*  perhaps  not  any  before  an 
other  winter, — an'  we  could  n't  do  it  at  all  unless  we  were 
pretty  sure  'twould  work.  So  what  I  wanted  to  ask  you, 
Mr.  Winterbourne,  was  if  you  knew  any  body  that  had  used 
it,  or  if  you  was  deaf  yourself." 

Winterbourne  opened  his  lips  and  emitted  an  exasperated 
baby  roar,  not  at  all  tempered  by  the  nearness  of  his  listener. 
As  it  left  his  lips,  he  was  aware  that  she  was  turning,  and 
before  he  had  fairly  added,  in  an  exasperated  cry,  "  Great 
Jupiter,  woman,  do  I  look  as  if  I  was  deaf?  "  she  had  melted 
away  into  the  dark.  He  stood  there  a  moment,  looking  into 
the  void  of  whirling  dust,  and  then,  leaving  the  door  still 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        n 

wide,  plunged  back  into  the  house,  rattled  at  the  obstinate 
drawer  of  a  table,  and  fled  out  after  her. 

Lovell,  trying  to  resume  his  interrupted  quietude  at  the 
hearth,  was  forced  awake  to  the  fact  that  the  entering  wind 
was  chilling  his  ankles,  and  heard  his  friend  go  dashing  away, 
down  the  street,  calling  something  as  he  ran.  Lovell  thought 
of  closing  the  door,  but  as  all  temperatures  were  more  or 
less  the  same  to  him  in  his  habitude  of  open-air  life,  he 
merely  put  his  feet  up  on  the  fire  dogs,  returned  to  the  con 
sideration  of  Theocritus,  and  waited. 

It  was  ten  minutes  or  more  before  Winterbourne  was  back 
again,  blown  and  muttering.  He  slammed  the  door  shut, 
and  came  in  to  his  interrupted  tranquillity.  While  he  turned 
up  the  wick  and  got  open  his  books,  Lovell  waited  ;  then  he 
said,  with  only  a  casual  interest,  - 

"What  was  it,  Winterbourne?" 

Winterbourne  was  eyeing  his  pipe  waiting  for  him  on  the 
table,  as  if  he  had  a  mind  to  smoke  instead  of  reading. 

"  It  was  a  damned  woman,"  he  said  absently, "  that  wanted 
an  ear-trumpet  for  another  totally  condemned  and  pestifer 
ous  woman  that  happens  to  be  her  mother." 

"Oh!" 

"She  lost  her  temper,"  said  Winterbourne,  with  inno 
cence.  "What  for,  I  could  n't  see.  I  'd  been  patient  with  her, 
though  she  was  enough  to  drive  a  quiet  man  to  hanging.  So 
she  took  herself  off  in  the  sulks,  and  I  had  to  pelt  after  her 
and  give  her  a  trumpet." 

"You  didn't  give  her  a  trumpet,  John?"  Lovell  looked 
more  awake  than  he  commonly  did  over  any  but  things  of 
immortal  value,  like  poetry  and  the  gods. 

"  Yes.  I  told  you  so." 

"  Now  what  do  you  want  to  bat  round  over  the  country 
giving  folks  trumpets  for?  How  many  do  you  own  anyway?" 


12        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"What?" 

"  Ear-trumpets." 

Winterbourne  was  turning  the  leaves  of  his  book,  with  an 
absorption  all  anticipated  pleasure.  His  rugged  face  cleared 
of  lines.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  found  at  last  the  most 
enchanting  game,  —  one,  though  he  had  played  it  long 
enough  to  gauge  its  perfections  fully,  gay  with  the  surprise 
of  first  encounter. 

"  Two,  that 's  all,"  said  he.  "  This  and  the  one  I  gave  you. 
That 's  on  your  mantelpiece,  if  I  remember." 

Then  they  both  laughed.  They  were  thinking  how  their  re 
newed  acquaintance  had  begun.  Winterbourne,  coming  back 
to  Clyde,  had  asked  some  welcoming  old  lady,  the  parson's 
wife,  maybe,  about  the  son  of  his  friend  Lovell,  and  the  old 
lady  had  told  him,  with  much  concern,  that  young  Lovell 
was  unhappily  shut  off  from  his  kind.  He  was  very  deaf. 
So,  trumpet  in  hand,  Winterbourne  had  sought  him  out,  and 
Jim  was  at  first  amazed,  then  touched  by  the  kindness  of  it 
—  and  they  had  left  the  trumpet  on  the  mantel. 

"  But  it  is  n't  on  the  mantel  now,"  said  Lovell.  "  It 's  in 
that  little  cupboard  overhead.  I  '11  tell  you  in  case  you  want 
it  in  a  hurry.  Don't  give  it  away,  Winterbourne.  You  don't 
want  to  send  it  flying  round  Robin  Hood's  barn  if  you're 
ever  going  to  patent  it." 

"I  'm  not  going  to  patent  it.  I'm  not  going  to  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  their  infernal  modern  scheming  to  get  them 
selves  booked  for  Tophet." 

"That  isn't  what  a  patent  does,"  said  Lovell  patiently. 
"You  know  that,  you  violent  old  party." 

Winterbourne  looked  up  at  him  with  a  quarrelsome  mien. 
Why  should  all  this,  it  asked  persistently,  keep  him  from 
his  book? 

"  I  wish  you  'd  stop  talking  ear-trumpets,"  he  said. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        13 

"  Well,  so  long  as  you  've  invented  it,"  Lovell  ventured 
a  pace  further,  "  the  next  step  is  a  patent,  if  you  want  to  get 
it  into  circulation  ;  and  you  do  or  you  would  n't  be  so  fly 
with  it  the  minute  you  hear  anybody  's  deaf/' 

"  That 's  because  I  'm  a  born  fool,"  Winterbourne  re 
sponded.  "  I  take  their  word  for  it.  They  want  to  hear,  and 
I  weakly  pass  'em  out  a  trumpet.  I  know  it  is  n't  best  for  'em 
to  hear.  I  know  there  is  n't  a  syllable  uttered  from  morning 
till  night  in  this  derelict  old  world  that's  worth  hearing  —  " 

"It  was  you  that  invented  it." 

"  I  did  that  for  my  mother.  She  wanted  to  hear,  too,  poor 
old  dear.  They  bought  her  a  trumpet,  and  it  buzzed  infer 
nally.  So  I  got  busy  and  made  this,  and  I  called  it  pan-pipes 
and  told  her  her  clever  son  hatched  it  up  for  her.  And 
she  loved  it,  and  when  she  mislaid  it  for  a  week,  I  had  to 
make  her  another  or  she  'd  have  died  of  grief.  And  she  's 
gone,  and  the  trumpets  are  here,  and  if  anybody  with  deaf 
ears  wants  'em  they  may  have  'em  and  go  hang.  I  don't 
take  dirty  money  for  'em,  do  I  ?  Ready  ?  " 

But  while  they  poised  on  the  point  of  entrance  into  the 
world  that  looked  to  them  every  night  fresh  created,  they 
were  plucked  rudely  back.  The  outer  door  opened,  and  a 
young  man  came  in.  At  the  clicking  of  the  latch  Winter- 
bourne  had  raised  his  leonine  head  with  an  angry  shake  and 
opened  his  mouth  to  the  roar  that  served  him  as  protest 
against  a  meddling  world.  But  meeting  the  young  man's 
gaze,  taking  in  the  familiar  pleasantness  of  his  tall  figure,  the 
clothes  that  always  brought  a  scent  of  outer  air,  anger  died 
in  him,  and  he  nodded,  in  easy  salutation. 

This  was  Dwight  Hunter,  who,  left  alone  with  no  blood- 
connections,  lived  by  himself  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  a 
mile  farther  on,  and  pursued  varied  occupations  of  an  out 
door  life  together  calculated  to  relieve  him  from  the  neces- 


i4        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

sity  of  going  into  the  city  on  an  early  train  and  sitting  at  a 
desk,  or  adopting  other  sophistical  occupations  which  his 
most  respectable  position  would  seem  to  entail  upon  him. 
He  was  working  and  playing  with  these  two  older  men  be 
cause  they  had  recognized  him  as  one  of  their  own  kind, 
and  prized  him  accurately.  Perhaps,  too,  their  solitary  life 
gave  color  and  suggestion  for  his  own.  Because  Lovell 
lodged  alone  in  a  small  house  slightly  removed  from  the 
large  one  where  he  and  his  mother  and  sister  had  lived  to 
gether,  Hunter  found  it  easier  to  assume  that  as  the  natu 
ral  way  of  conducting  bachelorhood  when  there  were  no 
women-folk.  So  Mary  Manahan  plied  back  and  forth  be 
tween  him  and  Lovell,  doing  them  daily  service  and  keep 
ing  their  domestic  timepieces  clicking  in  a  desultory  way. 
At  first  young  ladies  matrimonially  floating,  some  of  whom 
had  been  Hunter's  schoolmates,  thought  it  "ridiculous" 
that  he  should  be  living  so,  in  an  out-at-elbows  fashion; 
their  mothers  even  ventured  gently  to  persuade  him  it 
would  never  do.  But  he  was  an  obstinate  young  man,  of 
terse  address,  and  it  was  difficult  to  enter,  uninvited,  the 
arena  of  discussion  with  him  ;  and  as  no  eccentricity  was 
debated  upon  for  long  in  Clyde,  ladies  and  their  daughters 
retired  presently  to  their  customary  well-bred  repose,  and 
Hunter,  though  he  was  thought  no  less  of,  was  recognized 
as  having  plunged  over  the  boundary  of  the  deplorably 
unconventional,  and  given  his  head  to  gallop  there. 

He  came  forward  into  the  circle  of  lamplight,  and  halted, 
cap  in  hand,  the  attitude  of  easy  grace  adopted  not  because 
they  were  his  elders  but  because  he  was  born  to  an  instinctive 
courtesy.  He  was  ripe  for  life,  brown-eyed,  brown-haired, 
warm-colored,  with  teeth  ready  for  beautiful  laughter,  and  a 
freshness  of  skin  that  spoke  of  the  wind  and  the  sun.  The 
two  men  looking  at  him  had  the  same  thought  —  that  he 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        15 

belonged  to  the  days  of  heavenly  eld  shut  in  there  between 
the  dark  covers  of  their  book,  and  released  for  a  while  to  run 
these  meadows,  and,  an  alien  presence,  tread  these  streets  to 
show  the  world  what  was  when  Greece  was  young.  Winter- 
bourne  wakened  first  from  the  dream.  He  laughed  out. 

"Where's  Bacchus,  Hunter?"  he  inquired.  "Where's 
Pan  ?  You  left  'em  outside,  did  n't  you,  boy  ?  " 

Hunter  smiled  back.  He  knew  the  gods  by  name  and 
all  their  following,  but  he  had  no  present  use  for  them. 
They  seemed  to  him  to  belong  to  schoolmasters  and  men 
elderly  enough  to  like  to  rest  their  stiffening  legs  by  the 
fire  in  the  evening,  and  roll  out  poetry,  and  potter  over 
what  other  men  had  achieved  in  open  air. 

"  I  've  put  ten  loads  on  the  lower  end  of  the  field,"  he 
offered.  "  Now  you  said  something  about  ploughing  up 
round  the  house,  so  I  did  it.  I  've  ploughed  within  ten  feet. 
But  you  don't  want  the  carrots  up  round  the  house,  do 
you  ?  Shan't  I  lay  it  down  to  lawn-grass? " 

Winterbourne  looked  at  him  with  the  mild  obstinacy  of 
a  man  who,  having  entered  an  unfamiliar  occupation,  sees 
no  way  to  preserve  his  courage  in  it  but  by  keeping  an  in 
flexible  front. 

"  I  want  it  all  sowed  down  to  carrots,"  he  said.  "  Sum 
mer  carrots.  Do  you  sow  'em  broadcast,  Hunter?" 

The  young  man's  face  twisted  for  an  instant  and  his  eyes 
shone,  but  he  answered  with  a  perfect  gravity,  — 

"  No,  Mr.  Winterbourne.  We  sow  'em  in  drills.  They 
have  to  be  in  rows,  you  know,  so  you  can  get  the  wheel- 
hoe  between  'em." 

Winterbourne  nodded. 

"  I  want,"  said  he  magnificently,  as  if  he  were  demanding 
some  largess  of  the  powers,  "  I  want  as  many  carrots  on  this 
place  as  you  can  crowd  in  and  leave  me  room  to  step.  I 


1 6        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

want  carrots  up  to  the  front  porch  and  down  the  walks.  I 
want  'em  climbing  up  the  gutter-pipes  — " 

Hunter's  eyes  flashed  again  for  an  instant,  but  he  re 
marked  quietly, — 

"  They  won't  climb,  Mr.  Winterbourne.  I  can't  guaran 
tee  anything  there." 

"  Very  well  then,"  said  Winterbourne,  taking  up  his  pipe 
and  filling  it  in  haste,  as  if  he  might  get  in  a  smoke  edge 
wise  between  this  interview  and  his  reading, cc  let  'em  grovel 
then,  the  dunderheaded  things.  Let  'em  run  down  till 
they  're  sick  of  it,  when  they  might  soar  and  wave.  What 
do  you  say,  Jim  ?  " 

Lovell  roused  himself  from  his  frowning  study  of  a  page. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  "yes.  I  should  do  that.  By  all 
means  do  that." 

The  bell  jangled  peremptorily,  and  Winterbourne  started 
to  his  feet,  match  lighted  and  pipe  in  hand. 

cc  Hunter,"  he  said  silkily,  "  you  go  to  the  door  for  me, 
there  's  a  good  boy.  If  it 's  a  woman  that  wants  an  ear- 
trumpet  for  a  deaf  parent,  you  tell  her  they  're  all  given 
out  for  the  day.  The  supply  's  exhausted.  Bank  's  closed." 

Hunter  stepped  into  the  hall.  He  had  a  soft,  light  way  of 
moving,  as  if  his  muscles  gave  him  pleasure,  and  the  more 
gayly  they  carried  their  loads,  the  greater  the 'fun.  Presently, 
after  a  short  colloquy,  he  was  back  again,  a  letter  in  hand. 

"  Special  delivery,"  he  said,  and  gave  Winterbourne  the 
letter. 

Winterbourne,  taking  it,  regarded  it  gravely  and  with  some 
mistrust,  as  if  it  might  be  a  document  of  a  sort  for  which  he 
was  unprepared. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  and  slipped  it  into  his  pocket.  "  Sit  down, 
Hunter.  We  might  as  well  plan  about  to-morrow.  Lovell, 
wake  up.  Going  clamming  in  the  morning? " 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        17 

Lovell  closed  his  book  on  one  thumb  and  did  look  up,  the 
misty  light  of  his  eyes  gradually  clearing  as  the  sense  of  the 
necessities  of  things  throbbed  back  into  them  and  pushed 
the  dreams  away. 

"  What  time  's  tide  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Low  tide  at  five,"  said  Hunter.  He  had  perched,  seem 
ing  to  sit  but  giving  no  weight  to  it,  on  the  back  of  an  arm 
chair  at  a  greater  distance  from  the  fire.  "  I  've  got  boots  and 
the  whole  kit  down  in  my  shanty.  I  can  make  coffee  there, 
if  you  don't  want  to  rout  Lyddy  out." 

"  I  never  want  to,"  said  Winterbourne.  "  Lyddy  is  in  the 
sere,  where,  if  I  treat  her  handsome,  she'll  stay  till  she's  a 
hundred  and  ten.  But  she's  got  to  be  treated  handsome,  or 
she  '11  slip  her  cable  and  be  off." 

"  All  right,"  said  Hunter.  "  You  be  there  by  four  and 
I  '11  have  the  grub." 

The  three  of  them  paused  a  moment  then,  all  looking  at 
the  fire  and  gravely  considering  whether  there  were  more  pre 
liminaries  before  they  should  part.  Then  Winterbourne,  as 
if  he  wanted  to  include  Hunter  in  the  bond  of  their  fellow 
ship,  delivered  himself  of  the  sentiment  that  had  begun  the 
evening. 

"  It 's  a  good  life,  Hunter." 

Hunter  nodded. 

"  Suits  me,"  he  replied  briefly. 

cc  You  see,"  A^interbourne  continued,  bringing  out  a  line 
of  thought  he  had  presented  to  them  many  a  time  before, 
"  we  live  in  a  dangerous  hour.  There  are  enemies  all  about 
us,  banks  and  stock  exchanges,  labor-unions  and  trusts.  They 
are  bent  on  killing  the  soul.  If  we  are  going  to  exist  at  all, 
my  boys,  we  Ve  got  to  build  up  some  occupation  for  our 
selves  that  gets  us  our  bread  out  of  the  old  earth.  What  say, 
Jim  ?  " 


1 8        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

Lovell  had  not  spoken,  but  he  was  really  wondering,  as 
he  often  did,  in  moments  when  Ke  was  not  actually  reading 
the  poets,  whether  it  did  pay  to  live  at  all.  This  Winterbourne 
seemed  to  surprise  in  him,  and  plucked  it  out  of  its  breeding- 
ground  by  a  familiarity  with  his  thought.  Lovell  had  not 
spoken,  but  Winterbourne  took  up  his  thought  as  if  he  had 
uttered  it. 

"We've  talked  that  all  out,  Lovell.  It's  settled.  It's  a 
good  thing,  life  is.  We  've  spoiled  it,  some  of  us  for  our 
selves,  and  a  scurvy  lot  of  them  for  other  people.  But  it 's  a 
good  thing,  ain't  it,  Hunter  ?  " 

When  Winterbourne  felt  closely  in  touch  with  his  kind, 
he  alloyed  his  verbs  with  local  usage,  and  felt  it  brought 
him  nearer. 

"  I  'm  all  right,"  said  Hunter  generously,  as  if  that  were 
his  contributory  vote. 

"  We  're  all  of  us  all  right  if  we  work  with  our  hands  and 
get  calloused  and  hungry.  Now  I  calculate  there  are  three 
occupations  that  would  support  a  man  in  this  neighborhood 
without  his  having  to  descend  to  the  degradation  of  living  on 
money  out  at  interest.  He  can  plant  carrots.  That  I  'm  go 
ing  to  do.  He  can  go  clamming.  That  I  have  done.  He  can 
buy  lobsters  fresh  from  the  pots,  and  peddle  them  round  the 
country-side.  That  I  shall  do.  If  I  choose,  I  shall  learn  to 
make  baskets,  and  dispense  them  at  summer  hotels.  I  assume 
that  I  shall  lead  a  perfectly  useful  and  innocent  life  in  the 
midst  of  simple  occupations,  and  when  I  die  the  earth  will  re 
ceive  me  hospitably.  She  '11  remember  how  much  she  's  done 
for  me  and  like  me  the  better  for  it." 

Hunter  was  fixing  him  with  a  bright,  awakened  look. 

"  You  know,  Mr.  Winterbourne,"  he  said,  "  if  you  want 
money,  you  can  patent  your  ear-trumpet." 

Winterbourne  got  out  of  his  chair,  took  the  pipe  from 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        19 

his  mouth,  and  with  the  other  hand  lifted  the  poker  in  a 
menace. 

"  Go  home,  boy,"  said  he.  "  Go  right  home  now.  I  could 
split  you  from  nave  to  chine,  and  I  will  if  you  bring  any  of 
your  devil's  temptations  here." 

Hunter  laughed,  and  got  off  the  chair. 

"  Yes,  I  'm  going,"  he  said.  "  But  it 's  a  fact.  If  you  don't 
patent  it  somebody  else  will,  and  you  '11  like  that,  won't  you  ? " 

Winterbourne  advanced  on  him  with  the  poker. 

"  Go  home,"  said  he. 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  the  thing.  Lyddy  told  me  about  it. 
She 's  got  a  deaf  cousin  she  hates  like  poison,  and  it  threw 
her  into  a  holy  calm  to  know  there  was  a  trumpet  and  a 
cousin  that  could  n't  get  it." 

"  There 's  one  of  'em  down  at  my  place,"  said  Lovell,  look 
ing  up.  "  I  '11  show  it  to  you." 

Hunter  was  really  going  now. 

"Four  o'clock,"  he  called  back  to  them  from  the  outer 
door.  "  Four  sharp." 

The  door  closed  on  him,  and  then  Winterbourne,  laugh 
ing  softly,  put  down  the  poker.  He  shook  his  pipe  out  into 
the  fire,  and  laid  it  on  the  mantel,  with  the  gentle  care  of  the 
devoted  smoker.  There  he  stood  for  a  moment,  thinking. 

"  I  guess,"  he  said,  as  if  he  had  thought  of  anything  else 
since  his  mind  had  been  playing  on  the  surface  of  things, "  I 
guess,  Jim,  I  '11  read  my  letter." 

Lovell  looked  up  from  his  book  where  he  had  been  skim 
ming  a  page  with  more  than  usual  facility. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "of  course.   Read  your  letter." 

Winterbourne  was  turning  it  over  in  his  hand,  looking  at 
it  with  a  curious  tinge  of  apprehension. 

"  I  will,"  he  said.  "  It 's  from  my  wife." 


II 

LOVELL  looked  up  through  an  interest  which  was 
reminding  itself  not  to  commit  that  last,  worst  offence, 
and  overstep  the  bounds  of  curiosity,  and  there 
fore  kept  him  from  making  more  than  the  briefest  mono 
syllabic  "  Oh  !"  This  renewal  of  his  knowledge  of  Winter- 
bourne,  a  figure  of  hearsay  among  his  elders  even,  had  been 
of  a  man  who  had  lived  out  of  Clyde  long  enough  to  marry 
a  wife,  make  their  home  in  New  York  for  a  number  of  years, 
and  then,  in  some  unexplained  fashion,  determine  to  live 
apart  from  her.  When  Lovell  got  so  far,  as  he  did  two  or 
three  times  in  the  first  days  of  their  intimacy,  he  put  the  topic 
aside  as  one  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  ;  and  after  that,  look 
ing  at  Winterbourne  only  through  the  medium  of  their  kin 
dred  occupations,  he  never  thought  of  it  at  all.  But  he  was 
sure,  calling  upon  his  inner  unconfirmed  memory,  that  there 
was  a  wife  living,  and,  he  dimly  thought,  a  grown-up  child. 

Winterbourne  had  run  frowningly  through  the  four  closely 
written  pages,  and  now  stooped  and  laid  the  paper  on  the 
blaze.  There  was  a  finality  in  the  act  which  made  Lovell 
again  wonder  a  little,  briefly.  It  seemed  a  summary  fate  to 
inflict  on  a  letter  that  had  arrived  with  the  haste  of  a  special 
stamp.  Winterbourne  spoke  again  in  a  moved  and  gentle 
voice. 

"She  is  coming  here.    She  is  coming  home." 

"  When  ? "  asked  Lovell,  shaking  himself  into  a  practical 
marching  order  of  mind. 

"  To-night." 

Lovell  was  getting  out  of  his  chair. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        21 

"  I  '11  take  myself  off,"  he  said. 

Winter-bourne  put  out  a  powerful  hand,  and  appeared, 
by  a  touch  on  his  shoulder,  to  be  pushing  him  back. 

"  Don't,"  he  counselled.  He  seemed  really  to  be  implor 
ing  a  service.  "  She  is  coming  on  the  last  train.  She  does  n't 
want  me  to  meet  her.  She 's  telephoned  for  a  carriage,  she 
says.  Stay  with  me  till  then,  Jim." 

It  was,  to  Lovell's  sensitive  mind,  although  he  was  not 
used  to  clutching  at  subtleties  of  motive  in  every-day  act,  as 
if  the  other  man  anticipated  an  ordeal,  and  wanted  compan 
ionship  until  the  moment  of  his  meeting  it.  They  resumed 
their  chairs,  and  Winterbourne,  bending  forward,  took  the 
tongs  and  touched  the  sticks  into  a  blaze. 

"  I  have  n't  seen  her,"  he  said,  still  in  that  moved  voice, 
<c  for  over  four  years." 

It  was  one  year  more  than  he  had  been  here  leading  his 
happy  desultory  life  with  the  Greeks  and  his  fond  acquaint 
ance  with  the  earth. 

"  It 's  a  long  time,"  ventured  Lovell,  because  that  really 
seemed  all  there  was  to  say. 

"Yes."  Then  he  mused  a  space,  and  broke  out  afresh. 
"You  know  she  adopted  a  child,  —  we  did,  —  a  girl." 

"  I  was  n't  sure.   I  rather  thought  there  was  a  child." 

"We  never  had  one  of  our  own.  Catherine  found  this  one 
when  it  was  about  eight.  She  wanted  it.  She  had  a  kind  of 
passion — "  He  broke  off  here  and  turned  his  direct  gaze 
upon  his  friend.  It  seemed  as  if,  with  eyes  so  full  of  power, 
he  could  find  out  all  he  needed  to  know  before  asking;  yet 
there  was  also  a  pathos  of  seeking  in  them.  "  I  don't  know 
how  much  you  know,  Lovell,"  he  continued,  "  about  mod 
ern  women." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  at  all,"  said  Lovell  violently. 

His  mind  had  not  gone  back  so  far  as  to  summon  his 


22        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAiMILY 

mother  and  sister  from  the  dim  hall  where  they  dwelt  with 
lamps  of  adoration  burning  before  them.  They  stood  for 
something  warm  and  kind,  an  ecstasy  of  well-wishing,  and 
he  dared  not  think  of  them  often  lest  he  should  bring  upon 
himself  the  turbulence  of  mind  and  body  he  knew  as  grief. 
All  the  women  outside  that  circle  of  his  affections  he  regarded 
with  a  horror  of  nervous  distaste,  as  creatures  who  wanted 
to  tell  him  how  much  they  had  enjoyed  the  volume  of 
poems  he  had  published  years  ago,  as  if  the  work  were  a 
dish  for  the  table,  and  who,  on  the  strength  of  it,  meant 
to  hale  him  to  afternoon  teas  and  to  meet  distinguished 
strangers. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  modern  women,"  he  added 
hastily,  as  if  a  swift  disclaimer  might  help  in  keeping  them 
away. 

"No,"  said  Winterbourne,  almost  tenderly,  remembering 
his  secluded  life,  "  you  would  n't.  What  we  read  here  to 
gether  does  n't  prepare  us  for  'em.  There  are  n't  any  Helens 
—  though  there  's  a  little  of  Helen,  maybe,  a  very  little,  if 
you  feel  the  charm.  A  little  of  Medea,  a  little  of  Electra — 
I  can't  pursue  that.  Well,  my  own  wife,  Lovell,  had  a  passion 
for — I  don't  know  what  to  call  it  —  for  being  active,  for 
living,  for  helping  the  world  turn  round." 

Lovell  nodded.  He  thought  he  understood.  He  was 
willing  to  pretend  he  did,  for  this  unravelling,  he  saw,  Win 
terbourne  was  not  rinding  an  easy  task. 

"  Clubs  ?  "  he  inquired,  without  looking  up. 

Winterbourne  stared. 

"Clubs?  Oh,  women's  clubs.  I  guess  so.  All  kinds  of 
things  that  were  active  and  had  information  in  'em.  She 
brought  up  the  girl  to  learn  things  and  do  things.  I  don't 
think  the  girl  is  having  a  good  time." 

"  What 's  her  name  ?  "  asked  Lovell,  because  he  felt  it  to 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        23 

be  friendly  of  him  to  show  an  interest,  and  this  was  the  only 
question  safe  enough. 

"  Celia.  I  fancy  she  accounts  for  their  coming.  My  wife 
writes  there  is  something  the  matter  with  her/' 

Lovell  grunted  sympathy,  and  Winterbourne  went  on 
musing. 

"  She's  a  pretty  girl,  a  striking  girl.  But  she 's  not  clever. 
Catherine  wanted  her  to  be.  She  had  her  trained  in  a  great 
many  subjects.  I  don't  think  she  ever  got  very  far  in  them. 
I  don't  think  she's  happy,  as  I  said.  She's  had  a  feeling,  I 
think,  that  she  was  a  disappointment  to  my  wife  and  that  it 
seemed  ungrateful — "  He  stopped,  staring  into  the  fire. 

"Are  you — attached  to  her?"  Lovell  inquired,  out  of 
his  assumption  of  sympathy. 

"I  don't  know." 

"  I  suppose  your  wife  is  attached  to  her." 

"Oh,  very  much.  Very  much.  She's  been  Catherine's 
life-work.  If  Catherine  could  have  played  the  fiddle,  or  dug 
up  Egyptian  jugs,  or  danced  barefooted  in  beads  and  veils 
and  things,  I  dare  say  she  would  n't  have  laid  so  much 
stress  on  Celia.  You  can't  tell." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you  have  seen  her —  Celia? " 

"  Four  years.  Catherine  took  her  abroad.  She  was  to  be 
trained  for  something  or  other  there.  Then  they  came  back 
and  something  queer  happened.  Celia  found  her  own  sister." 

"  She'd  been  hunting  for  her?  " 

"  No.  It  was  quite  by  chance  and  very  simple.  The  girl 
had  been  working  in  an  ordinary  place,  — a  country  boarding- 
house,  I  think,  —  and  in  some  way  they  met  and  found  they 
were  sisters,  and  Celia  was  n't  to  be  separated  from  her." 

"That  was  hard  on  your  wife?"  Lovell  began  tenta 
tively. 

"  No.  Catherine  liked  it.   I  think  from  her  letters  she 


24       JOHN  WINTERBOURNE'S  FAMILY 

liked  it.  You  see  the  sister  had  a  voice.  So  it  seemed  to 
Catherine  she  could  do  some  of  the  things  with  her  she 
never  'd  been  able  to  do  with  Celia." 

"  What 's  the  sister's  name  ?  " 

Winterbourne  thought  for  a  moment. 

"I  don't  recollect,"  he  said. 

"Haven't  you  ever  seen  her?" 

"No.  It  all  happened  after  my  wife  and  Celia  came  back 
from  Europe,  —  why,  not  more  than  six  months  ago.  I  'd 
been  living  here." 

The  little  break  in  the  narrative  covered  the  reason  why 
he  had  begun  living  in  Clyde  while  his  wife  careered  about 
the  world ;  but  Lovell  felt  not  even  the  mildest  curiosity  in 
further  probing.  It  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  for  Win 
terbourne,  in  the  interval  of  waiting  for  family  bonds  to  be 
welded  again,  something  in  being  allowed  to  free  his  mind 
to  one  who  would  feel  bound  to  forget  it  all  next  day. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  suppose  your  wife  is  running  down 
to  see  you  and  leaving  the"  —  He  hesitated.  To  call  them 
girls  seemed  too  familiar  to  a  sense  of  courtesy  trained  in 
Clyde,  and  the  thin  air  of  relationship  forbade  him  to  name 
them  daughters.  "She'll  leave  the  others  behind  her? "he 
qualified. 

"  No,"  said  Winterbourne.  "  They  are  coming  too.  She 
comes  to-night,  and  Celia  and — "  He  bent  forward  over 
the  coals,  as  if  they  could  give  him  back  the  name  he  had 
sacrificed  —  "What  made  me  holocaust  that  letter?  Well, 
Celia  is  coming  and  the  other  one,  whatever  they  call  her,  in 
the  morning." 

Lovell  was  one  who  believed  fully  in  the  simplicity  of 
daily  life.  He  could  drink  from  the  spring  and  live  for  days 
on  bread  and  apples,  and  the  luxurious  convenience  of  rich 
houses  he  scorned  as  contributing  to  the  lax  fibre  of  the 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        25 

men  corrupted  by  them.  But  even  he  wondered  at  seeing 
Winterbourne  sitting  there,  hands  folded,  feet  at  rest,  before 
the  coals,  while  exacting  femininity  was  nearing  this  ram 
shackle  house  fit  only  for  the  rats,  or  men  with  bachelor 
habits,  or  Lyddy  Pendleton. 

"Don't  you  —  "he  hesitated,  and  then  found  himself 
obliged  to  continue  —  "don't  you  want  me  to  call  Lyddy?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Winterbourne,  with  an  innocent  self-pos 
session.  "  Lyddy  says  she  can't  be  broke  of  her  rest.  I  think 
she's  right.  I  don't  believe  she  can.  Anyway,  I  don't  dare 
to  try." 

Lovell  stared  at  him  a  moment,  and  again  looked  at  the 
fire.  It  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  mend  that,  and  he 
rose,  laid  on  a  stick,  and  then  went  poking  about  until  he 
found,  by  the  dining-room  fireplace,  a  charred  turkey-wing. 
With  that  he  swept  up  the  hearth,  and  keeping  it  still  in 
hand,  stood  for  a  further  minute  looking  about  the  room. 
Winterbourne  was  in  a  deep  amaze.  He  awoke  from  it  pre 
sently,  and  glanced  up  to  find  Lovell  at  his  task. 

"Oh!"  he  cried.  "Ah!  What  is  it?  You  sweeping,  Jim? 
You're  a  dear  fellow.  But  I  don't  believe  we  need  to  do 
that,  do  you  ? " 

Lovell  relegated  the  turkey-wing  to  the  floor,  and  then, 
because  it  looked  untidily  out  of  place,  picked  it  up  again 
and  hid  it  behind  a  row  of  books.  Upon  that,  the  disorder 
of  the  room  seemed  to  groan  at  him  afresh,  and  he  took  out 
his  handkerchief  and  began  walking  about,  running  it  over 
surfaces  in  a  stealthy  way,  as  of  one  who  recognized  the  in- 
evitableness  of  the  task  and  yet  knew  his  own  idea  of  it  to 
be  shamefully  superficial.  Winterbourne  watched  him  for  a 
moment  out  of  eyes  flooded  with  kindliness.  Then  he  opened 
his  mouth  and  emitted  a  torrent  of  mirth.  Lovell  took  no 
notice.  He  appeared  to  be  slightly  interested  now  in  his 


7*6        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

dusting  from  a  personal  standpoint,  and  even  rubbed  a  sur 
face  or  two  with  hopeful  vigor. 

"You  need  n't  do  that,"  said  his  host.  "  I  'd  help  you  if  it 
would  do  any  good.  I  'd  throw  in  my  handkerchief  and  my 
sark.  You  want  to  know  why  I  don't?  Because  it 's  hopeless, 
man,  it 's  hopeless.  You  couldn't  make  this  place  fit  to  meet 
Catherine  Winterbourne's  eye  in  less  than  a  year's  time  and 
two  gallons  of  paint  and  some  rags  at  the  window  and  an 
oriental  rug  on  the  floor.  If  you  were  in  hell  you  would  n't 
go  round  sprinkling  with  a  watering-pot,  would  you  ?  " 

Lovell,  arrested  by  the  vigor  of  the  simile,  had  paused, 
and  doubtful  of  the  wisdom  of  his  mission,  seemed  about 
to  relinquish  it. 

"  Well,"  said  Winterbourne,  taking  his  halt  for  a  virtual 
retreat,  "  Catherine  will  regard  this  place  as  hell.  You 
could  n't  change  its  main  features  unless  you  adopted  the 
methods  I  have  described.  Put  your  handkerchief  in  your 
pocket  and  come  along  and  read  Theocritus." 

He  seemed  to  have  slipped  into  a  mood  of  lightest  gayety, 
and  Lovell,  looking  at  him  an  instant,  decided  that  it  was 
real,  and  that  if  the  master  of  the  house  could  take  its  dis 
advantages  so  easily,  he  need  not  give  him  a  lead.  He 
stared  doubtfully  at  his  handkerchief,  shook  it  over  the  fire, 
and  then,  because  he  hated  smeared  things,  with  a  sudden 
impulse  tossed  it  into  the  blaze.  It  caught,  and  Winter- 
bourne  shook  his  head  at  him  reproachfully. 

"You  are  a  prodigal,"  he  said.  "You  will  see  the  time 
when  you  are  glad  to  wipe  your  nose  on  a  husk.  I  '11  have 
another  pipe.  I  can't  read.  I  am  excited.  It's  your  dusting 
the  room.  I  never  thought  such  convulsions  were  possible. 
They  're  not  in  nature,  man.  The  stars  forbid  them." 

While  he  filled  his  pipe,  Lovell  stood  on  the  other  side 
of  the  hearth,  leaning  on  the  mantel  and  preparing  so 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        27 

patently  to  speak  that  shades,  like  little  tentative  beginnings, 
kept  chasing  over  his  face. 

"John,"  he  said  at  last,  "if  I'm  going  to  meet  your 
wife  —  " 

"  You  need  n't,  boy,"  said  Winterbourne,  lighting  his 
pipe  and  speaking  between  the  puffs.  "You  don't  like 
women-folks.  You  shan't  be  brought  here  at  the  cart's  tail. 
I  '11  come  round  to  your  house  and  we  '11  go  on  with  our 
book." 

Lovell  seemed  to  take  no  notice  of  this  concession.  He 
looked  very  earnestly  desirous  of  setting  forth  something 
in  his  mind,  and  at  the  same  time  too  shy  to  do  it. 

"  If  you  speak  about  me-    "  he  began. 

"  Shan't,  man,  shan't.  Would  n't  do  such  a  thing.  S'pose 
I  'd  betray  you  to  pink  and  white  girls  and  mothers  of 
girls?" 

"  I  was  going  to  say,  if  I  play  off  that  idiotic  old  joke 
on  them,  are  you  going  to  think  it's  —  any  kind  of  dis 
respect  ? " 

"Bless  you,  no,"  said  Winterbourne  heartily.  "Why 
should  I?" 

"I  don't  know.  Only  if  you  do,  I  won't  enter  upon  it, 
that 's  all.  I  won't  do  as  I  did  with  you  when  you  brought 
me  the  trumpet,  and  say, c  I  'm  no  more  deaf  than  you  are  ' ; 
but  I  can  keep  away  from  'em  more  or  less." 

"  Lovell,"  said  his  friend  earnestly,  "  it  was  a  fortunate 
moment  for  you  when  you  decided  not  to  hear.  If  I  had 
my  life  to  live  over  again  I  'd  do  the  same,  except  with  one 
or  two  cronies  I  could  trust,  same  as  you  with  Dwight  and 
me.  Every  civilized  woman  that  trailed  me  with  that  look 
in  her  eyes  that  means  tea  and  little  sweet  cakes,  I  'd  put 
my  hand  up  to  my  ear  as  you  do;  but  I  wouldn't  be  so 
smooth  as  you.  *  Beg  pardon,'  I  Ve  heard  you  say,  c  I  'm 


28        JOHN  WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

very  deaf/  No,  I  'd  put  my  hand  up  to  my  ear  and  make  a 
face  at  'em,  and  when  they  screamed  I  'd  say,  c  I  'm  deaf 
and  I  'm  a  gargoyle.  I  Ve  got  down  off  the  gutter  for  a 
bat '  ;  and  then  they  'd  think  I  was  deaf  and  dotty  both. 
So  much  the  better.  Meddlers  !  " 

Lovell  was  not  .listening  to  him.  He  sat  mutely  con 
sidering. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  it  does  save  me  an  awful 
lot.  Folks  meet  me,  and  they  don't  speak  to  me.  Some 
times  I  have  a  crack  with  the  fellows,  and  I  don't  know 
what  they  think.  Once  Mrs.  Ramsay  stopped  in  the  street 
when  I  was  having  a  klatsch  with  the  little  new  parson. 
What  do  you  suppose  she  said  ?  c  Your  hearing  is  improv 
ing,  is  n't  it,  Mr.  Lovell  ? '  Scared  me  blue.  But  before  I 
left  the  parson,  I  managed  -to  say  I  could  hear  men's  voices 
better  than  women's.  But  not  well  enough  to  go  to 
church!" 

Wheels  had  stopped  at  the  door.  Both  men  knew  it. 
Winterbourne  got  up  and  tapped  his  pipe  on  the  chimney- 
piece.  Confidence  had  gone  out  of  him. 

"  She  took  an  earlier  train,"  he  said,  and  Lovell  as  auto 
matically  agreed  with  him. 

A  hand  was  on  the  door,  and  the  latch  lifted.  The  master 
of  the  house  turned  that  way,  but,  the  one  motion  made, 
seemed  unable  to  rouse  himself  from  his  stupor  of  arrested 
life.  Then,  the  door  open  a  crack,  a  woman's  clearly  impe 
rious  voice  without  gave  an  order,  evidently  relating  to 
trunks,  and  Lovell,  in  that  instant  of  pause,  realized  that 
there  was  no  way  for  him  to  fly  unless  he  met  the  newcomer 
face  to  face.  He  turned  with  a  dash,  threw  up  the  front 
window,  sprang  lightly  out,  and  pulled  down  the  sash  after 
him. 

The  act,  in  its  haste  and  vigor,  seemed  to  rouse  Winter- 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        29 

bourne  from  his  maze,  and  he  strode  forward  to  the  door, 
though  not  in  time  to  show  the  readiest  alacrity.  His  wife 
was  inside,  pausing  an  appreciable  moment  in  the  hall,  be 
fore  he  could  reach  her,  and  his  eyes  took  in  her  complete 
and  ornamental  appearance.  He  had  thought  he  knew  ex 
actly  how  she  looked,  line  by  line  and  tint  for  tint,  but  she 
was  so  astonishingly  urban  in  these  ancient  surroundings, 
so  equipped  to  make  things  move  and  insist  upon  her  own 
supremacy  over  them,  that  he  caught  his  breath  in  wonder 
and  perhaps  abashment.  Here  was  a  woman  on  the  road 
to  middle  life  who  had  kept  something  pathetically  fruitless 
from  the  charm  of  youth,  the  special  and  indubitable  appeal 
that  means  emotion.  Her  hair  was  dusky,  fine  and  thick, 
and  her  eyes,  of  a  dark  blue,  had  plentiful  lashes, — strange 
lids,  too,  that  were  a  beauty  in  themselves,  with  a  droop  at 
the  outer  corner,  a  mystical  curve  that  meant  —  what?  per 
haps  nothing  but  sheer  loveliness.  She  had  a  way  of  glanc 
ing  up  under  those  lids  in  an  unconsidered  interrogation, 
and  this  gave  her  sad  charm  an  added  force. 

That  face,  the  tragic  pathos  born  in  it  and  intensifying  with 
every  year,  Winterbourne  remembered  through  the  veil  of 
wilful  oblivion  he  had  hung  before  it.  He  had  studied  it 
passionately  in  the  old  days  when  there  was  some  hope  in 
his  ardent  heart  of  making  it  the  index  of  a  true  content. 
Later  he  had  acquiesced  in  its  sorrowing  appeal,  and  coun 
selled  himself  that  happiness  is  no  more  than  the  wanton 
guide  of  youth.  After  the  lovely  face  had  ceased  to  mark  his 
own  calendar  of  good  or  ill  fortune,  and  he  had  bent  him 
self  obstinately  to  homely  living  and  what  he  considered  the 
gods  meant  for  man  when  they  created  a  fruitful  earth,  he 
had  sometimes  seen  it  before  his  shut  eyes  at  the  end  of 
sleep,  in  the  early  morning  before  he  had  got  hold  of  his 
self-commanding  powers  again,  and  he  had  groaned  and  bade 


3o        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

it  begone,  assuring  himself  that  it  was  only  a  part  of  the 
tears  of  mortal  things. 

So  he  knew  it ;  but  he  was  not  prepared  for  the  figure  of 
fashion  his  wife  made  in  the  instant  she  stood  before  him. 
She  had  always  been  exquisitely  careful  in  her  dress,  accord 
ing  to  a  nice  perception.  Then  she  had  been  thinking  of 
other  things,  inner  ones, —  things  of  the  soul,  she  would 
have  said.  Now,  in  richness  of  material  and  harmony  of  tint, 
she  conformed  to  some  standard  he  dimly  recognized  as  set 
ting  her  apart  from  him  in  his  flannel  shirt  and  the  com 
fortable  wrinkles  of  his  coat.  This  efflorescence  in  her  he 
was  too  simple  to  classify  as  clothes.  He  only  thought  she 
had  changed,  in  a  way  that  embarrassed  him.  She  had  not 
lagged  on  the  road  to  beauty,  and  he  had  been  tramping 
through  the  mud  of  a  ploughed  field. 

But  she  had  taken  the  step  between  them  and  put  up  her 
face  to  be  kissed.  Winterbourne  performed  the  marital  cere 
mony  sparsely  and  with  some  abashment.  Now  she  was  at 
the  door  again  saying  in  her  rather  nervous  voice,  — 

"  Bring  in  the  trunks,  please.  You  '11  carry  them  upstairs, 
I  hope  ?  " 

Some  one  shouldered  a  trunk  and  appeared  with  it  in 
the  doorway.  Winterbourne,  when  he  saw  it  was  Dwight 
Hunter,  made  a  small  grimace  which  was  not  all  a  smile.  The 
young  man  had  been  delaying  outside  there  to  give  husband 
and  wife  an  interval  for  meeting.  Winterbourne  stepped  for 
ward  and  laid  hold  of  an  end  of  the  trunk. 

"  This  is  a  neighbor  of  yours,  Catherine,"  he  said.  "  This 
is  Mr.  Hunter." 

Hunter  set  down  his  end  of  the  burden  and  took  off  his 
cap,  which,  after  the  salute,  he  tossed  in  a  corner  and  pre 
pared,  again,  to  take  up  the  trunk.  Mrs.  Winterbourne  had 
smiled  at  him  rather  absently. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        31 

"I  didn't  know,"  she  said,  in  what  seemed  a  sufficient 
apology,  when  it  came  to  the  accompaniment  of  her  rather 
intense  method  of  speech.  "The  cabman  hadn't  any  team 
large  enough,  and  Mr.  Hunter  offered  his.  Where  shall  I 
have  my  trunks  put  P  " 

Winterbourne's  first  instinct  was  to  answer  truthfully,  "  I 
don't  know."  He  was  himself  sleeping  in  the  chamber  over 
the  sitting-room,  because  it  was  likely  to  be  warmer,  but  he 
had  a  sudden  light  of  memory  upon  the  picture  it  usually 
made  when  he  went  up  at  twelve  or  one  after  his  glorious 
bouts  with  Lovell  and  Theocritus.  There  were  days  when 
Lyddy  forgot  to  make  the  bed,  and  he  found  coverlet  and 
sheets  trailed  on  the  floor  in  a  disorderly  abandon.  This,  he 
felt  immediately  convinced,  would  be  one  of  the  days.  Also, 
he  had  built  a  fire  there  last  night,  and  he  remembered  how 
the  wind  in  the  morning  had  sifted  the  ashes  over  the  floor. 
All  this  was  swiftly  presented  to  him  in  a  panoramic  spasm 
of  fancy,  and  yet  he  seemed  to  answer  promptly  enough, — 

"  The  west  chamber,  Dwight." 

Then  they  went  up,  his  wife  following,  and  as  he  passed 
his  own  room  he  had  the  prudence  to  put  out  his  hand  and 
shut  the  door.  They  entered  the  darkness  of  the  west  room, 
and  Dwight,  setting  down  the  trunk,  said  in  a  hushed  tone, 
as  if  he  considered  the  exigency  rather  serious,  — 

"  I  '11  run  down  and  get  the  lamp." 

While  he  was  gone,  Winterbourne  and  his  wife  stood  in 
silence  together.  He  could  hear  her  breathe,  and  he  thought 
she  was  even  sniffing  in  the  dampness  of  the  place,  testingly. 
At  that  he  felt  a  comical  despair,  and  when  Hunter  came 
plunging  up  bearing  a  light,  he  looked  about  him  with  almost 
the  same  measure  of  curiosity  his  wife  must  be  feeling.  He 
had  not  entered  this  room,  nor  others  not  needed  in  his 
active  daily  life,  since  his  return,  and  he  was  prepared  to  find 


32        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

that  neglect  and  Lyddy  together  had  wrought  almost  any 
witch-work  upon  it.  When  he  saw  what  was  actually  there., 
his  mind  cleared,  and  he  turned  to  his  wife  with  a  little 
swagger  of  frank  relief  as  if,  after  all,  he  had  something  to 
offer  a  home-coming  traveller.  What  he  saw  was  the 
majesty  of  a  room  built  in  simple  proportions,  with  its  old 
beauties  of  wainscoting  and  panelling  untouched.  There  was 
a  rich  four-poster,  covered  by  a  sheet  which  seemed  to  him 
sufficiently  white  for  the  purpose  it  served.  There  could  be 
a  fire  in  five  minutes,  and  no  doubt  the  drawers  of  the  high 
boy  contained  plenty  of  bedding.  He  gazed  at  his  wife  in 
an  innocent  community  of  satisfaction  ;  but  his  heart  sank  at 
sight  of  her.  She  was  regarding  now  this,  now  that  of  the 
ancient  furnishings  with  an  incredulous  disaffection. 

"  I  should  get  my  death  in  here,"  she  remarked,  with  no 
scorn  but  simply  as  a  statement  of  a  fact  apparent  to  the 
.dullest  eye.  She  had  the  air  of  the  person  who  can  arrange 
and  dominate,  and  his  spirit  quailed  before  her. 

"  It  can  be  aired,"  he  essayed  weakly,  and  made  a  stride 
for  the  window. 

She  was  in  his  path,  and,  by  one  quick  gesture,  stopped  him. 

"  It  would  have  to  be  aired  a  week  —  and  sunned — and 
cleaned.  Where  's  Lyddy  ?  " 

Meantime  Hunter  stood  beside  them  with  a  shamefaced 
air  of  sharing  Winterbourne's  discomfiture. 

"  I  '11  go  down  and  fetch  up  the  other  trunks,"  he  offered 
then  in  a  conciliatory  fashion,  as  if  something  in  process  of 
moving  might  appease  the  lady. 

She  gave  him  a  little  nod,  meaning  concurrence. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "They've  got  to  be  somewhere.  You 
have  n't  told  me."  She  turned  to  Winterbourne.  "Where  's 
Lyddy  ? " 

"  Lyddy 's  abed."  He  was  answering  like  a  sulky  child. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        33 

"  Abed  !  Where  is  her  room  ?  I  '11  ring  for  her." 

Winterbourne,  with  the  defence  of  the  weak  in  his  hands, 
grew  at  once  bolder. 

"  I  can't  have  Lyddy  disturbed  at  this  time  of  night/'  he 
announced.  Then  he  looked  at  her  appealingly,  as  if  to  beg 
her,  out  of  her  womanly  resources,  to  find  some  other  path 
to  harmony. 

"  Is  n't  she  doing  your  work?  You  wrote  me  she  was." 

"  Yes,  but  she  's  an  old  woman,  Kitty."  He  ventured  on 
the  diminutive  timidly,  perhaps  as  a  slightest  possible  atom 
thrown  into  the  balance,  a  coaxing  weight.  "  You  can't  rout 
Lyddy  out."  Then  he  raised  his  voice.  "  Here,  Hunter. 
Give  over  there.  Don't  tackle  'em  alone." 

He  hastened  down,  grateful  for  a  break  in  the  current  be 
tween  him  and  his  wife,  and  together  he  and  Hunter  rattled 
the  trunks  up  and  stood  them  in  a  row.  Mrs.  Winterbourne, 
purse  in  hand,  was  turning  to  Dwight  with  a  businesslike 
inquiry  on  what  had  suddenly  become  her  careworn  face. 
But  Winterbourne,  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  turned  him 
summarily  about,  and  seemed  to  propel  him  toward  the 
stairs. 

"  Much  obliged,  my  boy,"  he  said.  "  I  '11  be  there  in  the 
morning.  Four  o'clock,  remember." 

Hunter,  on  the  way  down,  reasoned  rather  perplexedly  to 
himself  that  a  man  whose  wife  had  come  home  to  a  disordered 
house  and  no  adequate  explanations  of  anything  could  hardly 
be  at  liberty  to  go  clamming  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
especially  as  the  time  was  wearing  on  and  four  o'clock  would 
be  there  before  Winterbourne  was  likely  to  know  it.  He 
stopped  at  the  stair-foot,  and  having  considered  a  minute 
more,  called  back,  — 

"  I  can't  go  to-morrow.  See  you  again  about  it." 

Then  Winterbourne  with  his  wife  and  the  baggage  in  the 


34        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

unwelcome  chamber  heard  the  closing  of  the  door  and  the 
sound  of  wheels  down  the  street.  Another  of  his  dear  com 
panions  gone.  He  turned  with  an  involuntary  sigh  to  his 
wife  and  spoke,  all  meekness. 

"  It's  warmer  downstairs,"  said  he. 


Ill 

WHEN  they  went  downstairs  and  entered  the  sit 
ting-room,  Winterbourne  felt  a  momentary  acces 
sion  of  courage  because  the  familiar  spot,  with  its 
two  chairs  before  the  smouldering  fire,  and  the  fire  itself, 
gave  him  a  habitable  feeling.  He  drew  forward  Lovell's 
chair,  with  a  show  of  hospitality,  and  his  wife,  after  looking 
at  it  frowningly,  as  if,  after  her  experience  of  the  chamber, 
she  distrusted  all  surfaces,  sat  down  and  resigned  herself  to 
alien  circumstances.  She  recalled  suddenly,  though  late,  a  re 
solve  she  had  made  on  her  way  here :  a  determination  that 
the  old  arguments,  the  old  strife  between  her  own  idealism  and 
what  she  considered  her  husband's  eccentric  obstinacy,  should 
never  be  renewed.  She  had  come  home  fully  bent  upon  put 
ting  the  homely  and  commonplace  axioms  of  marital  life  into 
force.  Should  he  upbraid,  she  was  prepared  to  meet  him  with 
a  smile.  But  he  never  did  upbraid,  she  knew.  He  had  childish 
temper-fits  at  unexpected  times,  when  he  shook  his  fist  at  the 
sky  and  bade  it  bear  witness  that  no  man  was  ever  so  much 
the  butt  of  godhead  as  he.  Those,  she  felt  almost  sure,  would 
hardly  trouble  her  now.  She  was  even  prepared  to  face  his 
most  incomprehensible  quality  of  devotion  to  hideously  plain 
living,  his  refusal  to  discuss  ideals  of  any  sort,  and  his  tacit 
denial  that  love  between  men  and  women  demanded  any 
poetic  expression  after  its  first  fervor  had  flown.  So  it  was  as 
a  very  good  wife  that  she  sat  gingerly  in  the  doubtful  chair 
and  said  to  him  with  careful  deference,  — 

"  I  don't  think  I  gathered  exactly  why  Lyddy  was  n't  to  be 
called.   Is  she  ill?" 


36        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

Winterbourne  answered  shortly,  because  he  was  not  at  all 
sure  she  might  not  defeat  him  on  a  domestic  point,  as  being 
within  her  rights,  and  hale  Lyddy  out  of  her  retreat. 

"  She  's  got  the  worst  of  all  sicknesses,"  he  said  briefly. 
"She's  old." 

"  Can  she  cook  ?  " 

"She  cooks,  and  likes  it.  Cooks  well,  too.  What  she 
does  n't  like  is  being  expected  to  hop  round  us  three  times 
and  make  us  more  comfortable  than  humans  ought  to  be. 
Lyddy 's  got  beyond  playing  that  kind  of  a  game." 

His  wife  looked  at  the  fire  with  a  clarity  of  housewifely 
justice. 

"  I  suppose  you  pay  her  ? "  she  remarked. 

"  Pay  her  ?  Why,  yes,  of  course  I  pay  her.  She 's  laid  up 
a  little,  but  she  depends  on  that  for  shrouds  and  things." 

"The  girls  are  coming  to-morrow." 

«  Celia  —  "  he  hesitated. 

"  And  Lilian." 

"  Celia  better  ?  " 

He  was  still  fumblingly  anxious  to  show  a  proper  interest, 
and  yet  thinking  how  dear,  how  very  dear,  the  black  book 
was  at  his  side,  the  book  he  must  not  open,  must  hardly 
think  of  lest  he  fly  to  it. 

"  Celia  has  n't  been  ill." 

"You  wrote  me  —  "He  looked  into  the  fire  as  if  he  could 
perhaps  summon  up  the  telltale  letter.  "You  said  there  was 
something  the  matter  with  her." 

"  Oh,  that !  "  Her  face  took  on  the  look  of  worry  he  knew 
so  well,  out  of  the  useless  proficiency  gained  in  his  acquaint 
ance  with  her  emotional  distresses  of  one  sort  or  another. 
"It's  quite  a  long  story.  I  didn't  mean  she  was  sick.  I  meant 
she  told  lies." 

"Told  lies?  What  about?" 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        37 

"  Everything.  It's  come  on  her  quite  lately." 

"  What  does  she  do  ?  Embroider  what  happens,  or  tell 
what  has  n't  happened  ?  " 

"  Both.  It's  very  serious,  John.  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
with  her." 

He  spoke  flippantly  out  of  his  amusement  over  what  he 
felt  was  another  of  Catherine's  mental  tragedies. 

"  Why  don't  you  send  her  to  a  specialist  ?  Send  her  to 
an  alienist?  " 

"  I  should  like  to.  I  Ve  thought  of  it." 

"Good  God!  don't  put  her  under  that  kind  of  a  lens. 
The  child  is  n't  mad." 

"  No,  but  there's  some  lesion,  there's  something  abortive 
in  her  brain  — " 

He  stared  at  her. 

"  I  wish  we  did  n't  have  to  borrow  terms  for  things,"  he 
said.  "  There  's  no  more  damning  sign  of  the  times  than  lay 
men  using  words  and  thinking  they  Ve  got  somewhere  by  it. 
Say  the  girl's  a  liar,  if  she  is  a  liar.  Don't  fish  out  her  brain 
and  fumble  with  it." 

"  But  she  's  my  responsibility." 

He  looked  into  the  fire  gloweringly  and  said  nothing. 
He  had  heard  a  great  deal  about  Catherine's  responsibilities. 
They  had  almost  [made  him  resolve,  in  a  reactionary  spite, 
that  he  would  have  none. 

"  How  is  the  other  girl  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Lilian?  So  far —  John,  she's  an  enormous  disappoint 
ment." 

"  Well,  you  don't  care,  do  you  ?  Your  affections  are  n't 
involved  ?  " 

"  My  affections,  no.   But  Celia's  are." 

"Is  she  fond  of  her?" 

"  Naturally.  Her  sister  ! " 


3  8        JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  the  implication  that  sisters  were  not 
fond  might  be  monstrous.  Winterbourne  thought  he  had 
heard  of  such  cases,  but  he  said  nothing  because  he  remem 
bered  that,  with  Catherine,  the  clever  thing  was  to  avoid 
argument.  She  had  plenty  of  time  for  it,  but  it  kept  him  from 
the  fellowship  of  books.  That  striking  him  less  like  an  in 
vitation  than  a  picture  rescued  from  old  days  and  thrown 
upon  a  screen  before  him  for  an  instant,  made  him  steal  a 
glance  at  the  book  waiting  there  for  him,  patient,  inscrutable, 
holding  its  beauties  until  the  foolish  mind  got  ready  to  aban 
don  these  peddling  discussions  and  come  back  to  calms  and 
sanities.  His  hand  crept  out  toward  his  pipe,  too ;  but  he 
withdrew  it.  That  was  one  thing  he  could  not  remember 
about  Catherine.  She  might  not  mind  smoking,  but  it  seemed 
reasonable  that  she  did. 

Catherine  was  settling  to  a  leisurely  flow  of  talk,  of  the 
sort  she  chose,  not  the  lazy  interchange  of  trifles  born  out 
of  the  common  air,  sparks  struck  out  as  the  breath  comes, 
but  stories  interminably  prolonged.  Winterbourne  hated 
them.  He  liked  to  embark  himself  on  a  monologue,  specula 
tion  about  the  things  in  heaven  and  earth ;  but  an  infinite 
number  of  parentheses  opening  his  mind  to  the  minds  of 
tedious  people,  he  abhorred.  She  continued, — 

"You  know  how  we  found  Lilian?*' 

"  I  believe  you  wrote  me." 

It  was  in  one  of  the  long  letters  constructed  according  to 
an  ill-chosen  method  of  page-numbering,  he  readily  assumed. 
He  knew  how  the  letters  looked,  and  how  he  faithfully 
studied  through  them  from  the  first  page  to  the  finish,  and 
then  back  to  the  second,  which  had  to  be  tipped  at  right 
angles,  when  the  whole  could  as  easily  have  been  written  like 
a  book. 

"  It  was  on  our  way  to  New  York,  you  know,  the  month 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        39 

after  we  came  home  from  abroad.  The  train  was  stalled. 
We  got  out  and  went  to  spend  the  night  at  an  inn  in  that 
little  town.  What  was  the  name  of  that  town  ?  I  never  can 
remember." 

Winterbourne  shifted  his  feet,  the  one  over  the  other. 

"Never  mind  the  town,"  he  suggested.  "It's  probably 
not  material." 

"  No.  Well,  I  shall  think  of  it.  And  there  was  this  girl. 
She  had  a  ring,  —  it 's  exactly  like  a  story,  —  a  little  onyx 
ring,  hung  round  her  neck  by  a  ribbon,  because  it  was  too 
little  for  her  to  wear.  And  that  was  so  queer  that  it  attracted 
Celia's  notice.  She  began  to  talk  to  her.  And  Lilian  told 
her  name  quite  simply,  —  Elizabeth  Hartwell." 

"I  thought  her  name  was  Lilian." 

"  Oh,  no.  We  call  her  Lilian  because  it 's  so  much  better 
for  a  singing  name  —  Lilian  Winterbourne.  But  her  real 
name  is  Elizabeth  Hartwell." 

"What  condemned  foolishness!"  said  Winterbourne, 
escaped  into  his  normal  habit  of  outcry.  "  As  if  you  couldn't 
sing  under  one  name  as  well  as  another.  A  crow  doesn't 
caw  because  he  's  a  crow.  If  you  called  a  thrush  a  catbird,  it 
would  n't  alter  his  throat." 

"Oh,  but  it's  most  important!  All  those  things  are. 
We  've  gone  into  it  very  deeply  and  we  know.  And  what  do 
you  think  she  was  actually  doing  when  we  found  her  ?  " 

She  paused  for  the  effect  of  her  dramatic  climax. 

"Tying  some  kind  of  a  trinket  round  her  neck  by  a  string, 
was  n't  she  ?  " 

"  No,  no.  The  ring  was  round  her  neck.  That 's  how 
Celia  recognized  her.  You  see  she  had  the  mate  to  it.  Some 
nice  old  gentleman  —  that  is,  I  think  he  was  old.  It  may  be 
he  was  just  middle-aged  and  seemed  old  to  them  — " 

"  Catherine,"  broke  in  Winterbourne,  so  exactly  in  the 


40        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

tone  of  past  fulminations  that  she  jumped  perceptibly  in  her 
chair,  "  Catherine,  I  don't  care  how  old  he  was." 

"  No,  but  these  are  facts,  and  I  like  to  get  them  accurate. 
Well,  when  they  were  children,  he  took  a  fancy  to  them  be 
cause  they  were  pretty  and  cunning,  and  he  gave  them  these 
two  little  rings.  Do  you  see  ?  " 

Winterbourne  gripped  his  hands  on  the  arms  of  his  chair 
and  waited.  It  was  evident  to  him  that  he  had  broken  his 
intent  to  be  the  courteous  and  patient  host,  and  he  meant  to 
renew  the  guard  on  himself. 

"  And  now  what,"  she  was  continuing,  "  what  do  you 
think  she  was  actually  doing  when  we  found  her?  " 

He  shook  his  head  at  the  fire,  gloomily. 

"She  was  washing  a  floor!" 

The  tone  of  high  triumph  with  which  she  delivered  this 
at  once  convinced  him  that  it  was  expected  to  have  an  enor 
mous  effect. 

"  Good  for  her  !  "  he  responded,  cordially,  though  in  the 
dark. 

"  Yes,  she  was  washing  a  floor,  precisely  like  Agnes  Sur- 
riage." 

Winterbourne  remembered  far  more  about  the  Greece  of 
the  Golden  Age  than  about  Great  Britain's  colonies ;  but  his 
wife,  innocent  that  she  had  failed  of  her  effect,  went  on, — 

"  Well,  the  girls  were  simply  enchanted  to  find  each  other. 
Lilian  does  n't  say  much,  but  I  think  she  was  enchanted, 
too.  And  then  we  heard  her  singing  about  her  work,  and  we 
found  she  had  this  astounding  voice  —  oh,  rich  and  perfectly 
splendid." 

"That's  good,"  said  Winterbourne  patiently. 

"  Yes,  was  n't  it  ?  And  then  the  question  was,  what  to  do 
about  it  ? " 

That  was  it,  Winterbourne  reasoned,  in  recognized  de- 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        41 

spair.  Catherine  would  have  to  do  something  about  it.  She 
could  n't  find  a  priceless  voice  and  refrain  from  peering  at 
it  and  fingering  it,  and  perhaps  in  the  end  somehow  tarnish 
ing  it. 

"Here  was  this  glorious  voice/'  she  continued,  with  high 
relish  of  her  tale,  "  and  nothing  was  being  done." 

"  Was  n't  she  singing  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  the  parlor,  in  the  evening,  to  a  melodeon.  They 
called  it  an  instrument.  She  called  it  so,  too.  Fancy  !  " 

"  They  are  honest  people,"  said  Winterbourne,  who  had 
no  ear,  save  for  the  poetic  description  of  a  flute  at  dawn. 
"They're  all  instruments  of  torture." 

But  she  was  ignoring  him.  These  mild  lunacies  of  his 
seemed  to  her,  as  they  always  had,  the  outbreak  of  the  mas 
culine,  which  was  also  the  childlike  mind.  She  had  the 
theory,  evolved  from  the  surprises  and  griefs  of  her  marital 
experience,  that  men  are  but  children.  If  you  take  them 
otherwise,  you  are  likely  to  die  broken-hearted,  of  the  disap 
pointments  they  deal  you.  But  a  comprehensive  scheme  of 
their  undeveloped  soul  is  your  only  safeguard.  This,  she 
concluded,  was  one  of  the  exigencies  when  she  was  not  to 
mind,  and  she  continued, — 

"  We  took  her  away  at  once.  Celia  would  n't  hear  to  any 
thing  else.  I  believe  if  I  had  refused  her,  she  would  have 
stayed  herself." 

"  Took  her  away  from  a  good  place  where  she  was  con 
tented  and  earning  her  living  and  singing  to  the  boarders  in 
the  evening  ? " 

"John,  it  was  a  common  boarding-house  —  a  kind  of 
tavern." 

"  Was  n't  she  contented  there  ?  " 

"  Yes.  That  was  the  trouble.  She  was  perfectly  contented." 

"  Why  have  you  gone  and  upset  her  life  ?  "  Winterbourne 


42        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

pelted  at  her  with  exasperation.    "  What  have  you  done  it 
for?" 

Catherine  saw  he  did  n't  understand,  but  she  could  afford 
to  explain  herself. 

"  We  carried  her  off  to  New  York.  The  first  thing  was 
to  get  her  some  clothes.  She  can't  wear  Celia's  very  well. 
Celia  is  very  slender.  Then  we  took  her  to  several  music- 
teachers  —  I  won't  trouble  you  with  the  names.  You 
would  n't  know." 

"  No.   Don't  trouble  me  with  anybody's  name." 

"They  all  agreed  she  sang  wonderfully.  She  has  a  perfect 
method.  And  we  got  a  hearing  for  her." 

She  looked  at  him  brightly,  challenging  his  response  to 
the  luck  of  it,  but  he  was  rearranging  the  fire,  and  saying 
without  interest,  — 

"That's  good." 

"I  simply  went  to  all  the  people  I  knew  and  threw  my 
self  on  their  mercies.  I  said,  c  Here  's  a  girl  that  will  sweep 
the  town  some  day.  She's  Sembrich,  she 's  Lehmann.'  I 
said  anything  that  came  into  my  head.  I  said,  c  When  she  's 
arrived,  we  shall  be  glad  we  were  in  at  the  start/  I  got  some 
perfectly  splendid  patronesses." 

The  word  displeased  him.  It  smacked  of  the  worship  of 
the  rich. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot  to  say  I  had  her  taught  a  half-dozen  songs 
-  ballads,  you  know,  something  simple.    And  everybody 
understood  she  was  doing  it  quite  without  training.    Well. 
And  what  do  you  think  ?    The  thing  was  a  failure,  a  down 
right,  miserable  failure." 

"  I  suppose  she  missed  the  instrument,"  said  Winter- 
bourne,  slyly  glad  she  did  fail.  He  thought  there  was  some 
thing  unholy  in  the  triumph  of  managing  and  conjuring  by 
empty  names. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        43 

"I  suppose  she  did!"  A  warm  indignation  put  life  into 
her  lovely  eyes.  "  She  stood  cowering  there  in  that  dress  I  'd 
paid  I  don't  know  how  much  for,  and  her  hands  shook,  and 
she  sang  like  a  little  school-girl  before  her  teacher.  Oh,  I 
could  have  slapped  her  !  " 

"  She  's  a  good  girl,"  said  Winterbourne.  "  She  's  the  girl 
for  my  money.  I  'm  glad  she  could  n't  stand  up  like  a  cock 
atoo  and  squawk." 

"  Celia  was  in  the  back  row.  She  got  perfectly  white.  I 
thought  she  was  going  to  faint.  And  Lilian  saw  her  towards 
the  end,  and  what  do  you  think  she  did?  She  broke  down 
and  began  to  cry." 

"  You  got  your  Nemesis  that  time,  did  n't  you,  Catherine  ? " 
said  Winterbourne,  with  indulgent  sympathy.  "  Did  n't  that 
teach  you  anything?" 

"It  taught  me  she  'd  got  to  be  made  to  meet  an  audience. 
She's  got  to  be  taught  to  manage  her  voice  — " 

"  I  thought  she  managed  it  by  nature." 

"So  she  does  when  nobody's  looking  at  her.  Or  when 
there's  only  a  music-teacher  in  the  room.  She  thinks  he's 
just  a  quiet,  pleasant  man  that  knows  how  to  do  something 
—  Oh,  well,  I  don't  pretend  to  say  what  she  thinks.  But 
stand  her  up  before  a  well-dressed  audience,  and  she 's  as 
gauche  as  a  heron  on  one  leg." 

"Well,  you've  tried  her  and  she  doesn't  work.  Why 
don't  you  let  her  alone  ?  " 

"  I  can't  let  her  alone.  I  can't  for  Celia's  sake.  Celia  'd 
be  broken-hearted.  And  I  can't  for  her  own  sake.  There 
she 's  got  this  perfectly  magnificent  voice,  and  it  simply 
must  be  cultivated." 

"  Let  her  alone,  Catherine.  You  let  her  alone.  She  's  all 
right  as  she  is.  She  '11  marry  a  car-conductor,  and  sing  to 
her  babies,  and  she  '11  be  a  happy  woman  if  you  '11  let  her." 


44        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

She  gave  a  little  shriek. 

"  A  car-conductor !  Marry  a  car-conductor !  Celia's  sis 
ter!" 

"  Celia  be  hanged.  Why  should  n't  all  our  sisters  marry 
car-conductors  ?  And  what 's  this  pother  about  Celia's  sis 
ter?  Celia  was  contented  enough  without  any  sister  till  she 
knew  she  had  one." 

His  wife  was  looking  at  him  solemnly. 

"  John,"  she  said,  "  I  believe  Celia  has  missed  her  all  her 
life." 

"  Oh,  come,  Catherine,  don't  get  up  theories  about  Celia." 

"  She  has  done  more  than  I  can  tell  you,  already,  for 
Celia's  development.  Celia  has  been  a  rather  unfeeling 
child  —  " 

"  She  's  been  infernally  dutiful  trying  to  do  the  tricks  you 
expected  of  her." 

"  Yes,  but  I  never  felt  any  real  affection  in  Celia.  It  was 
a  great  sorrow  to  me.  She  needed  somebody  of  her  own 
blood  to  bring  it  out.  You  know  there  's  the  family  feeling 
first,  then  the  tribal  feeling  —  " 

"  Catherine,  don't  you  hand  me  over  the  recipes  you  get 
from  reading  clubs,"  said  her  husband,  shaking  his  head  at 
her  until  his  locks  flew  as  in  a  breeze  of  his  negation.  "  I 
can't  stand  'em." 

"  Celia  is  just  beginning  to  comprehend  the  family  feeling. 
The  rest  will  come.  And  it  has  got  to  come  through  Lilian." 

"  Now  tell  me."  He  thrust  one  hand  into  his  pocket  and 
turned  his  great  bulk  sidewise  in  the  chair.  "  If  you  are  going 
to  begin  this  devil's  symphony,  this  rake's  progress  through 
the  world  for  the  approval  of  well-dressed  people,  why  don't 
you  stay  in  the  world,  Catherine  ?  What  are  you  here  for 
in  Clyde,  where  we  don't  sing  and  we  don't  pipe,  and  we 
won't  dance  to  your  piping? " 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        45 

She  faced  him  with  eyes  full  of  an  earnest  and  pure  pur 
pose.  It  gave  the  words  she  presently  uttered  a  startling 
incongruity. 

"John,  I  have  n't  a  cent  of  money." 

"  The  devil !"  said  Winterbourne,  and  stared  at  her. 

She  gazed  back  solemnly,  aware  of  her  embarrassment 
and  meaning  to  meet  the  question. 

"  Not  a  cent,"  she  repeated.  "  I  know  what  you  'd  say  if 
you  were  n't  too  generous  and  great-hearted  —  " 

Winterbourne  groaned  over  the  warmth  of  the  adjectives, 
and  felt  how  little  they  applied  to  the  attempt  at  justice  with 
which  he  had  managed  the  division  of  their  goods. 

"  You  'd  say,"  she  went  on, "  that  when  I  went  abroad,  four 
years  ago,  you  made  over  to  me  nearly  everything  you  had." 

"  No,  no,  Catherine.  I  only  gave  you  three-quarters.  It 
was  n't  because  I  was  generous.  It  was  because  I  knew  how 
to  do  sums.  I  sat  down  and  figured  it  out  that  if  you  were 
going  to  live  a  life  of  gilded  vanities  in  Europe  and  the 
cities  of  America,  you  'd  need  three  times  as  much  as  I,  be 
cause  I  was  returning  to  the  soil.  That 's  all.  But  where  did 
it  go  ?  I  thought  it  was  a  kind  of  a  little  fortune." 

"  It  was.   I  lost  it." 

"  Lost  it?  Where?  Carry  it  in  your  stocking  and  have  it 
tumble  out,  or  keep  it  in  your  bedroom  slipper  and  get  it 
dusted  out  of  the  window?" 

She  had  not  the  slightest  aversion  to  telling  him,  because 
it  evidently  seemed  to  her  that  although  she  was  unfortunate 
she  was  not  really  culpable. 

"I  lost  it,"  she  said  simply,  "in  the  panic.  Mrs.  Green- 
ough  was  putting  a  great  deal  into  Western  Silt,  and  I  went 
in  as  heavily  as  I  could." 

The  madness  of  Ajax  was  nothing  to  this.  That  Winter- 
bourne  could  understand,  because  God  sent  it.  But  this 


46        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

modern  tawdry  gambling  according  to  the  dicta  of  other 
gamblers,  for  more  money  and  more  and  more,  when  one 
had  a  pocketful  of  clean  coin  to  live  honestly  on  —  he 
could  not  even  think  of  it. 

"  Catherine  !  "  he  said.   "  Catherine  !  " 

The  full  note  of  his  voice  recalled  her  to  what  he  must 
be  thinking.  His  temper-fits  were  never  over  what  was 
large  and  really  tragic.  They  came  when  a  pin  pricked  him 
or  he  could  not  find  his  pipe.  But  if  the  moment  were 
really  urgent,  then  he  was  as  grave  as  all  the  judges.  She 
began  to  feel  even  terrified.  Her  heart  beat  faster,  and  with 
out  seeing  just  why,  she  realized  that  she  was  in  a  difficult 
place. 

"  You  don't  think  I  ought  to  have  done  it,"  she  said,  in 
a  small  voice.  "  You  don't  approve." 

"  It  was  your  own  money,  Catherine." 

"  A  great  many  people  do  it.  Almost  every  one." 

"Catherine,  it  was  your  own  money." 

She  began  to  be  hungry  and  a  little  chilled.  He  was  her 
husband,  but  he  seemed  like  a  stranger,  and  suddenly  she 
felt  that  her  Celia,  for  whom  she  had  lived  so  many  years, 
did  not  really  love  her  very  much,  and  that  Lilian,  whom 
she  was  beginning  to  help,  did  not  love  her  at  all.  And  she 
had  no  one  of  her  own  blood  to  turn  to,  and  there  was  n't 
a  bed  in  the  house  fit  to  sleep  in.  The  tears  came  silently, 
and  Winterbourne  saw  them  on  her  cheeks.  He  stirred 
uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  Catherine,"  he  besought  her,  "don't 
do  that !  " 

She  seemed  to  have  brought  back  in  a  rush  the  other 
times  he  had  seen  her  cry,  and  swept,  with  a  besom  of 
emotion,  all  the  great  calm  things  that  had  occupied  him 
for  the  four  years,  out  of  the  house  so  that  they  went 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        47 

scudding  into  the  night,  ill-used,  blameless  creatures,  their 
locks  flying  in  the  wind.  She  looked  about  her,  in  desolate 
acquiescence,  until  her  eyes  took  in  the  possibilities  of  the 
old  leather  sofa. 

"  I  could  curl  up  there,"  she  said  miserably.  "  I  could 
put  my  ulster  over  me." 

Winterbourne  got  up  and  walked  distractedly  back  and 
forth,  moved  partly  by  the  poor  setting  of  the  scene  where 
they  were  renewing  their  friendliness,  but  pursued,  too, 
though  that  he  would  not  recognize,  by  a  prophetic  sense 
that  to-morrow  would  see  the  house  swept  and  dusted,  set 
in  the  cold  order  that  brought  duties  and  social  intimacies 
in  its  train.  She  was  confirming  him. 

"  To-morrow  we  '11  see  what  can  be  done,"  she  said,  as 
she  rose  languidly,  sure  at  last  that  she  was  tired.  "The 
girls  could  have  the  two  back  chambers.  I  suppose  there  's 
bed  linen  enough." 

Winterbourne  struck  his  clenched  fist  against  a  door,  in 
passing,  and  she  started  at  the  sound.  What  had  he  to  do 
with  the  knowledge  of  bed  linen?  his  unquiet  soul  was  ask 
ing.  Lyddy  had  reigned  over  his  discomfort  and  reigned 
well.  His  sheets  might  have  been  of  flax  washed  by  Nau- 
sicaa  and  her  maidens,  or  they  might  have  been  calico  from 
New  England  looms.  But  sleep  on  them  was  sweet  because 
he  had  gone  to  them  from  the  occupations  he  loved.  Cath 
erine,  curled  up  on  the  sofa,  pulling  her  ulster  to  her  chin, 
was  looking  up  at  him  with  a  tired  face,  but  smiling  rue 
fully.  He  saw  how  fervently  she  wished  she  had  n't  come, 
yet  she  was  not  going  to  be  hateful  enough  to  say  it.  That 
was  a  way  of  behaving  he  could  approve,  and  he  had  an 
impulse  of  gratitude  to  her,  so  warm  that  he  tucked  the 
ulster  round  her  feet,  murmuring  something  rhythmically 
and  grotesquely  soothing  in  his  beard. 


48        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  It  is  n't  any  worse  than  a  sleeping  car,"  she  said,  reas 
suring  herself,  and  then  added  what  frightened  him  for 
good  and  sent  him  shuddering  up  to  his  room:  "We 
must  get  some  sleep.  The  girls  will  be  coming  in  the 
morning." 


IV 

THE  next  morning  Winterbourne  woke  early  because 
the  time-piece  of  his  mind,  set  to  the  hour  for  clam 
ming,  had  not  readjusted  itself.  There  he  lay  on  his 
disordered  bed,  in  the  first  cold  light,  and  shuddered  inwardly 
to  think  how  completely  his  castle  of  indolence  had  been  sur 
prised,  and  how  weak  its  capitulation  had  shown  it  to  be.  He 
sadly  knew  that  no  woman  inheriting  what  were  called  decent 
traditions  could  live  in  a  house  like  his  without  turning  to 
with  soap  and  water  and  hateful  dust-raisings,  and  conjuring 
it  into  the  form  other  houses  wore.  The  change  seemed  to 
him  more  than  he  could  bear  without  incurring  danger  of 
that  outbreak  Lyddy  characterized  as  "  flying  off  the  handle," 
when  his  pulses  hammered  out  an  alarum  against  things  as 
they  are.  It  had  all  been  beautifully  settled,  he  thought, 
four  years  ago,  when,  by  the  sacrifice  of  mere  money,  he 
had  relegated  his  wife  to  the  activities  of  her  chosen  exist 
ence  and  had  crept  back  here  to  luxuriate  in  simplicities. 
But  the  bond  that  had  drawn  them  together  had  capri 
ciously  tightened  once  more,  and  here  they  were  back  again, 
pulling  all  awry  in  the  double  harness  he,  at  least,  deplored. 

He  stepped  out  of  bed  like  an  old  man,  and  only  after 
his  cold  bath  felt  like  facing  the  widespread  difficulty.  Even 
the  bath  itself  was  on  a  diminished  scale.  Up  to  this  time 
he  had  run  half  a  mile  to  the  fresh  river  and  taken  a  plunge 
even  when  he  had  to  break  the  ice  to  do  it,  but  to-day  his 
waning  spirits  kept  him  to  a  meagre  bowl. 

When  he  went  downstairs,  rather  softly  as  if  he  were 
Afraid  of  calling  the  attention  of  orderly  household  gods  to 


5o        JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

his  sad  condition,  he  heard  voices  from  the  dining-room  and 
groaned  to  himself,  knowing  exactly  what  sort  of  interview 
was  going  on. 

"But  if  you  mean  to  work  at  all,"  his  wife  was  saying,  in 
her  clear  and  now  didactic  voice,  "  you  must  work  properly." 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  work,"  Lyddy  was  returning,  with  her 
peculiar  indifference  of  tone.  "  My  work's  all  behind  me. 
I  'm  past  my  prime,  an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  kill  myself  for  any 
body." 

The  battle  was  on,  he  knew,  and  it  required  the  full  force 
of  his  halting  will  to  keep  him  from  turning  the  other  way 
and  crossing  the  hall,  breakfastless,  to  the  room  where  the 
refuge  of  his  books  awaited  him.  But  he  took  the  last  un 
willing  steps  into  the  dining-room,  and  there  his  wife,  clad 
in  a  charming  neglige,  stood  resting  one  hand  on  the  table 
in  a  judicial  attitude,  looking  at  Lyddy  on  her  knees  before 
the  sulking  fire,  blowing  it  without  the  aid  of  bellows,  and 
turning  eyes  wrinkled  about  from  the  smoke,  to  toss  back 
her  negative  phrases  in  a  detached  and  altogether  improper 
manner  to  the  mistress  of  the  house. 

Winterbourne  looked  at  his  wife  for  an  instant's  earnest 
scrutiny  before  he  entered  the  lists  on  the  side  of  what  he 
considered  the  weaker  combatant.  Catherine  was  pale,  but 
charming.  Her  face  had  a  wan  patience  that  would  have 
gone  to  his  heart  if  it  were  not  so  irritating.  She  seemed 
to  have  made  up  her  mind  not  to  complain,  and  though  it 
nettled  him  in  the  necessity  it  bespoke  for  control,  he  knew 
how  much  it  cost  her.  Then  he  turned  to  Lyddy,  who,  in 
her  loose  calico  confined  by  an  apron  string  at  the  waist, 
her  small  twist  of  hair  and  the  angularities  of  her  squatting 
figure,  protruding  elbows,  even  ears  at  too  obtuse  an  angle, 
was,  he  realized,  a  sight.  He  had  been  thinking  of  Lyddy 
with  nothing  but  gratitude,  her  years  of  service,  her  auto- 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY         51 

matic  way  of  creating  good  plain  food,  and  then  letting  a  man 
alone  to  live  out  his  life  in  a  sane  and  natural  fashion  ;  but 
now,  with  her  face  lined  by  a  thousand  wrinkles,  and  the 
general  dustiness  of  her  aspect,  as  if  the  grains  from  the  fly 
ing  wheel  of  toil  had  ground  into  her  and  become  a  part  of 
her  integument,  he  saw  how  unfitted  she  was  to  satisfy  any 
domestic  ideal.  But  that  only  made  him  hate  ideals  the 
more. 

"  Let  the  fire  alone,  Lyddy,"  he  said  compassionately, 
because  she  seemed,  with  him,  to  be  an  outcast  from  some 
mysterious  precinct  neither  of  them  wished  to  enter.  "  It  '11 
do  well  enough." 

He  approached  it  and  gave  the  forestick  a  warning  kick, 
with  the  result  of  upward-flying  sparks  and  a  following  blaze. 
Lyddy  scrambled  deftly  up  and  stood  before  him,  squat  and 
unlovely,  yet,  for  his  needs,  serviceable  to  the  last  degree. 

"  Your  breakfast 's  ready,"  she  said  to  him,  with  an  entire 
and  yet  what  seemed  an  innocent  disregard  of  the  mistress 
of  the  house.  "  I  've  set  it  out  on  the  table." 

With  that  she  disappeared  into  the  kitchen  at  her  accus 
tomed  trot,  and  Winterbourne  was  left  alone  before  his  wife. 
At  once  his  sympathies  were  with  her,  because  resistance  had, 
he  saw,  gone  too  far.  She  was  looking  at  him  with  pathetic, 
tear-filled  eyes. 

"  I  told  her  to  prepare  the  table  here,"  she  said  gently. 
"  I  could  see  the  dining-room  was  n't  in  use.  I  asked  where 
the  table  linen  was." 

"  I  Ve  spoiled  her,"  Winterbourne  explained  in  haste. 
"  You  see  I  eat  in  the  kitchen  and  go  off  about  my  busi 
ness.  She  does  n't  see  why  everybody  should  n't.  Lyddy  's 
an  old  woman.  It's  a  long  time  since  she  did  any  civilized 
work." 

"  I  know  it,  John ;  but  if  you  are  going  to   make  her 


52        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

your  housekeeper,  she  must  keep  your  house.  If  you  are 
going  to  pay  her  money,  she  must  earn  it." 

"Well!  well!" 

Those  were,  he  knew,  quite  accurate  conclusions,  yet  they 
belonged  to  the  detestable  civilized  code  he  was  trying  to 
abjure.  He  strode  off  to  the  kitchen,  and  presently,  while 
Catherine  still  waited,  he  was  back  again  with  a  fine  white 
napkin  in  one  hand  and  a  cup  of  coffee  in  the  other.  He 
spread  the  napkin  on  an  end  of  the  great  mahogany  table 
and  set  down  the  cup  upon  it  with  the  extreme  care  adopted 
by  hands  when  they  distrust  themselves  in  an  unaccustomed 
task.  Then  he  went  off  to  the  kitchen  again  and  returned 
with  a  plate  of  corn-cake  and  a  saucer  of  butter.  Catherine, 
watching  him,  felt  absurdly  small  and  pathetic  with  this  ser 
vice  going  on.  She  was  hungry,  and  yet  it  did  not  come  to 
her  that  Winterbourne  was  bound  by  vows  to  share  his  food 
with  her.  It  seemed  a  grace  in  him.  He  drew  off  and  re 
garded  his  preparations  frowningly. 

"  There  ! "  said  he.  He  seemed  satisfied.  His  brow  cleared, 
and  his  smile,  warm  and  ready  as  the  best  sunshine,  came 
and  illuminated  him.  "  There  's  your  breakfast,  honey.  Now 
draw  up." 

A  flush  ran  into  her  face  and  stayed  there,  lured  by  the 
caressing  word.  She  did  not  know  he  had  drawn  such  lubri 
cants  from  old  stores  to  use  them  now  on  the  children  he 
went  to  play  with,  at  the  end  of  the  town,  and  that  it  slipped 
out  unbidden  because  she  seemed  so  like  a  child  herself.  To 
her  it  meant  renewal  of  their  bond.  He  drew  back  the  chair 
invitingly,  and  she  slipped  into  it  and  tasted  her  coffee.  It 
was  good.  Lyddy  might  have  forgotten  all  the  arts  that 
make  life  gentle,  but  she  had  retained  the  faithful  formulae 
that  please  the  palate.  Catherine  broke  a  piece  of  bread  and 
looked  up  at  him  with  a  recognition  of  its  symbolism.  But 


JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY         53 

he  was  regarding  her  in  a  frank  satisfaction,  intent  only  on 
seeing  her  fed. 

"  Where  's  yours  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  smiled  at  her  because,  by  eating,  she  was  pleasing  him. 

"  On  the  kitchen  table,"  he  answered,  and  before  she  could 
remonstrate,  he  had  gone  to  seek  it. 

So  they  breakfasted  apart,  —  Winterbourne,  glancing  up 
from  time  to  time  as  he  devoured  great  pieces  of  the  bread, 
to  interrogate  Lyddy's  back  bending  over  the  kneading- 
board  on  another  table,  and  wonder  how  her  stubbornness 
could  be  cast  out. 

The  Winterbourne  kitchen  was  large  and  square  and  low, 
with  a  great  blackened  beam  overhead,  heavy  doors,  and  an 
enormous  hearth  invaded  by  a  modern  range.  But  beside  it 
was  the  door  of  the  brick  oven,  Lyddy's  adjunct  to  Saturday's 
baking,  and  the  mantel  was  high  and  narrow  over  it,  melt 
ing  into  the  wall  by  a  miracle  of  panelling.  Winterbourne 
loved  the  room  because  it  had  a  homely  look  of  comfort, 
and  always  a  cosy  kindliness  more  enwrapping  than  the 
warmth  of  fireplaces.  Lyddy  loved  it,  for  it  was  her  domain, 
and  even  now  in  her  stubborn  mind  she  was  considering 
whether  it  would  not  be  craftier  to  serve  meals  to  the  alien 
woman  without  there  in  the  dining-room  than  to  dare  her 
into  the  kitchen,  an  invasion  more  to  be  deplored  than  the 
taking  of  many  extra  steps. 

Winterbourne  had  finished  and  risen  from  his  chair.  He 
stood  by  the  table  looking  at  her,  and  Lyddy  knew  it,  though 
her  back  was  turned. 

"  Lyddy,"  he  said  at  length,  quite  peaceably. 

Her  heart  knocked  against  her  old  side.  She  adored  him, 
and  when  he  unc6nsciously  coaxed  her  he  was  irresistible. 

"  Lyddy,  you  know  that's  my  wife  in  there." 

Lyddy  heaved  up  one  scornful  shoulder. 


54        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  The  two  young  ladies  are  coming  this  morning." 

"Young  ladies?" 

She  had  to  answer,  out  of  the  surprise  of  it.  He  nodded  at 
her  obstinate  back.  If  he  was  sorry  for  her,  he  was  tempted 
to  explain,  he  was  a  thousand  times  more  anguished  for  him 
self.  But  he  continued  irreproachably,  with  a  decorum  his 
wife  could  not  have  exceeded, — 

"  Our  daughter,  Miss  Celia,  and  her  sister."  In  his  desire 
to  fulfil  the  law  he  would  have  claimed  both  sisters,  but  at 
the  instant  he  failed  to  remember  the  other  one's  name. 

"  Who  under  the  sun  's  that  ?  "  Lyddy  broke  forth  harshly. 
"  That 's  Dwight  Hunter.  Who  's  he  got  with  him  ? " 

Dwight  Hunter  in  his  great  wagon  was  driving  up  to  the 
door.  He  had  on  a  suit  of  clothes  conformable  to  usage,  and 
for  that  reason  Winterbourne  wondered  why  he  looked  so 
strange.  On  the  broad  seat  with  him  were  two  girls  set  off 
by  such  bravery  of  veils  and  floating  pennons  that  Winter- 
bourne  felt  his  heart  drop  at  the  sight  of  them.  His  coward 
mind  prompted  him  to  sink  back  into  his  seat  at  the  table, 
put  his  head  in  his  hands  and  burst  into  lamentations  like  the 
bellowings  of  Ajax.  These  two  hussies,  he  said  to  himself, 
were  bringing  the  city,  with  its  meretricious  splendors,  into 
his  plain  paradise.  What  his  wife  had  begun  last  night  with 
her  air  of  civilized  equipment,  they  would  treble.  But  with 
that  hoppling  marriage-bond  about  his  feet,  he  knew  he 
could  not  escape  them,  and  that  shame  and  an  added  suffer 
ing  lay  in  waiting  until,  with  honeyed  blandishments,  they 
came  and  dragged  him  from  his  lair.  So  he  made  a  plunge  at 
the  dining-room  door,  opened  it,  and  was  at  once  in  the 
midst  of  three  women  greeting  one  another  affectionately. 

Hunter,  too,  was  there.  He  had  brought  in  a  couple  of 
suit-cases,  and  with  his  cap  in  hand,  all  young  approba 
tion  of  the  lasses,  was  waiting  to  know  where  the  luggage 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        55 

could  be  carried.  Winterbourne,  in  his  mood  of  general  dis 
favor,  felt  a  sudden  hatred  of  him  for  being  pleased.  Hunter, 
he  knew,  had  gone  unnecessarily  to  meet  the  train,  to  be  sure 
the  incoming  horde  should  find  no  difficulty  in  making  their 
onslaught,  and  Hunter  was  being  paid  for  it  in  having  come 
on  two  charming  girls  who,  not  knowing  his  standing,  were 
treating  him  indifferently  indeed,  but  pleasantly.  And  as 
Winterbourne  stood  there,  loathing  everybody  impartially, 
Catherine  saw  him  and  gave  a  cry. 

"  Celia,"  she  called,  in  a  tone  of  happy  warning,  "don't 
you  see  ?  There  's  your  father." 

Celia,  the  slighter  of  the  two  girls,  turned  and  came  to  him 
with  a  silken  rush,  and  the  waft  of  a  subtle  breath  not  quite 
a  perfume.  She  put  up  her  hands  to  his  shoulders  while  his 
arms  unwillingly  enveloped  her.  Then  she  gave  him  two 
little  kisses  on  his  bearded  cheeks,  so  light  and  yet  so 
quick  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  ecstatically  blew  them  to  him. 
Almost  instantly  she  turned  away,  still  keeping  a  hand  on 
him. 

"  Lilian,"  she  called,  in  her  rather  high,  pleasantly  vibrat 
ing  voice.  "  Lilian,  here  's  father." 

Then  Lilian  advanced,  though  at  a  walking  pace  of  two 
or  three  steps,  and  Winterbourne  expected  another  waft  of 
romantic  fervor  and  more  butterfly  kisses.  But  the  girl  put 
out  her  hand  to  him  and  waited  until  he  took  it,  and  he  im 
mediately  felt  impelled  to  lose  no  time  in  doing  it.  His  great 
fingers  and  palm  closed  upon  a  good-sized  hand  of  a  compact 
feel,  which  returned  his  grasp  with  only  a  suitable  degree  of 
warmth.  Then  he  looked  at  her.  There  she  was,  his  unknown 
daughter,  built  with  a  more  generous  promise  than  the  other 
one,  yet  round  and  slender  and  tall  enough  for  suggestions 
of  the  statuesque,  the  calm.  She  had  brown  eyes  and  brown 
hair,  and  a  mouth  touched  with  some  wilful  melancholy  of 


56        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

youth.  But  although  she  looked  so  unassuming,  a  little  sad 
dened  by  some  background  of  experience  he  could  not  touch, 
she  puzzled  him.  Holding  her  hand  that  instant,  he  felt  as 
if  they  were  old  friends,  more  bound  to  each  other  than  to 
the  two  women  there  who  knew  them  both  before. 

Perhaps  some  word  of  welcome  ought  to  have  been  ex 
pected  of  him,  but  he  failed  to  give  it,  and  dropping  her 
hand,  turned  to  Celia,  who  was  talking  in  little  breathless 
sentences  that  seemed  to  want  to  express  great  pleasure  at 
seeing  him.  Celia,  he  thought,  in  spite  of  his  wife's  myste 
rious  hints  of  psychological  complications,  was  easily  enough 
understood.  She  had,  he  noticed  for  the  first  time,  a  curious 
resemblance  to  his  wife,  perhaps  because  she  was  of  the  same 
eager  type  and  they  had  worn  upon  each  other  in  their 
trained  gymnastics  toward  the  ideal  until  they  moved  and 
carried  themselves  in  the  same  way.  Celia  had  a  lovely  slen- 
derness.  She  was  pale,  with  black  eyes  and  soft  black  hair, 
the  nose  with  nostrils  too  large  for  beauty,  perhaps,  but 
hinting  pride.  There  were  curves  in  her  lips,  unlike  the  soft 
fulness  of  her  sister's.  She  made  the  best  of  herself,  it  was 
plain  for  the  practised  eye  to  see,  and  yet  the  simplicity  of 
her  clothes  so  became  her  that  she  had  all  the  naturalness  of 
a  considered  art. 

"You  didn't  quite  know  you  had  another  daughter,  did 
you,  father  ? "  she  was  saying,  with  a  laugh  that  ran  in  and 
out  of  her  speech  like  silver  bells. 

He  meant  to  answer  her,  but  instead  he  turned  to  the 
other  girl,  standing  there  with  what  seemed  to  be  an  accus 
tomed  patience. 

"  What  is  your  name  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Elizabeth,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  voice  rich  in  natural 
excellencies.  "Lizzie  Hartwell." 

He  found  he  was  remembering  his  wife's  picture  of  her 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        57 

as  they  had  come  upon  her  washing  a  floor,  the  little  ring 
swinging  by  a  ribbon  about  her  neck. 

"  Is  that  what  they  called  you  when  you  —  " 

"When  I  was  at  the  tavern?"  she  answered,  with  the 
same  simplicity.  "  No.  They  called  me  Bess." 

"I  shall  call  you  Bess,"  said  Winterbourne. 

But  his  wife  and  Celia  were,  he  felt,  making  a  little  ago 
nized  flutter. 

"  I  told  you,  John,"  his  wife  was  saying,  with  a  soft  re- 
proachfulness ;  and  Celia  added,  as  if  he  had  not  been  let 
into  secrets  he  would  be  sure  to  approve,  — 

"We  took  the  name  of  Lilian  for  her,  Lilian  Winter- 
bourne.  It  makes  such  a  difference,  don't  you  know!  Don't 
you  think  it 's  a  nice  name,  father, —  Lilian  Winterbourne  ? " 

He  could  see,  out  of  his  old  chafed  memories  of  his  wife's 
management,  how  they  had  taken  the  girl  over  into  their 
hands  and  wafted  even  her  name  away  from  her,  for  every 
body's  good.  She  stood  looking  at  him  with  those  candid 
eyes  which  did  not  appeal  because  the  soul  behind  them  evi 
dently  acquiesced  in  many  things  it  would  not  have  chosen, 
but  which  somehow  seemed  to  be  asking  for  vindication  and 
the  right  to  live.  She  spoke  again,  softly  as  if  she  breathed 
it  and  were  a  little  afraid  of  hurting  somebody's  desires  or 
prejudices. 

"  My  name  is  Bessie  Hartwell." 

The  two  other  women  gave  a  little  flurried  rustle,  and 
exchanged  a  look,  all  a  fleeting  despair,  yet  kindly,  too. 
They  seemed  to  see  her  returning  to  some  old  vice  from 
which  the  moment  had  but  just  now  rescued  her. 

"  Bess,  you  're  a  good  girl,"  said  Winterbourne  inexpli 
cably.  Then  he  added,  "  Have  you  had  breakfast  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Celia  assured  him,  they  had  breakfasted  at 
the  hotel  before  starting,  very  early  indeed  because  they  had 


5 8        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

been  so  anxious  to  be  here.  They  had  taken  an  earlier  train 
than  the  one  mother  suggested.  Here  she  picked  up 
mother's  hand  with  a  pretty  affection  which  seemed  calcu 
lated  to  the  onlooker  because  it  was  so  well-considered,  and 
Catherine,  on  her  part,  caught  at  the  caressing  hand  quite 
eagerly  and  held  it.  In  the  old  days  when  Winterbourne  had 
given  a  daily  amount  of  thought  to  the  possibility  of  their 
coming  out  superbly,  he  and  Catherine,  in  their  marriage 
venture,  he  had  studied  her  until  he  was  acutely  sensitive  to 
meanings  in  her  face  and  air.  Then  he  had  given  up  the 
puzzle  and  settled  down  into  an  unthinking  acquiescence  ; 
but  the  data  he  had  collected  then  were  still  at  hand.  He 
knew,  he  found,  why  she  was  doing  things.  And  the  little 
impetuous  hand-clasp  showed  him  that  she  was  still  eager  for 
affection  she  did  not  get,  still  trying,  in  some  fashion,  to  ful 
fil  the  ideal  she  had  built  up  for  herself.  It  terrified  him, 
and  he  turned  brusquely  away  from  them. 

"You'll  make  yourselves  comfortable,  won't  you?"  he 
said,  with  the  bluff  assumption  that  the  materials  for  com 
fort  could  be  found.  "  I  'm  going  down  to  the  Jellybys'." 

Celia  was  ready  with  her  light  laugh. 

"  How  curious!  That's  a  name  in  Dickens." 

Winterbourne  was  good-humored  again.  He  nodded  his 
shaggy  head  at  her  and  smiled. 

cc  Right  you  are,"  said  he.  "  Their  name  is  -Ramsay.  I  call 
them  Jellyby  after  their  mother." 

"That  isn't  Anna  Clayton  Ramsay?"  asked  his  wife, 
coming  into  the  question  with  a  social  quickness.  "  The  phi 
lanthropist?" 

"  It 's  Anna  Clayton  Ramsay,"  Winterbourne  returned, 
with  emphasis.  "  She  has  five  children  and  a  poor  devil 
of  a  husband.  The  poor  devil  of  a  husband  goes  into 
town  on  the  six-thirty  every  morning,  and  comes  back  after 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        59 

dark.  I  never  saw  him.  I  don't  believe  anybody  ever  saw 
him." 

Dwight  Hunter  was  running  down  the  stairs.  Everybody 
had  forgotten  him,  and  nobody  was  ever  to  know  that  he  had 
found  a  broom  above  and  had  been  sweeping  the  rooms  where 
he  put  the  luggage,  and  awkwardly  essaying  the  plumping 
up  of  beds. 

"  Dwight,"  Winterbourne  called,  "did  you  ever  see  Ram 
say,  Mrs.  Jelly by's  husband?" 

Dwight  halted  in  the  doorway,  cap  in  hand  and  the  signs 
of  his  distress  over  feminine  beauty  in  this  Castle  Dreadful 
written  all  over  his  handsome  face. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I've  seen  Ramsay." 

"What's  he  like?  now  what's  Ramsay  like,  c  crawling 
between  earth  and  heaven,'  and  letting  that  woman  plunge 
herself  into  intellectual  debauchery  ?  " 

"John  !"  breathed  his  wife. 

"  Oh,  Ramsay  's  a  little  fellow,  with  a  green  bag." 

Winterbourne  raised  his  fists  and  his  glance  to  the  ceiling. 
The  clenched  hands  seemed  to  have  found  something  to  pull 
themselves  up  by,  where  in  person  he  could  interrogate  the 
highest  tribunal. 

"  O  all-ruling  Jove ! "  he  thundered.  "  Odin  !  Thor !  listen 
to  him.  Ramsay  is  a  man  with  a  green  bag.  That 's  all  we 
any  of  us  know  of  Ramsay,  a  little  God-forsaken  creature 
stealing  out  in  the  morning  light  like  a  maggot  from  a 
cheese,  and  doing  jobs  to  support  that  woman  and  her 
brood." 

"  He 's  with  a  broker,"  said  Dwight  impartially. 

"I  said  so,  didn't  I?" 

"  How  many  children  are  there,  father?"  Celia  inquired, 
not  that  she  cared,  but  because  she  had  the  habit  of  social 
interchange. 


60        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  There  are  five  children.  Their  mother  is  away  all  day 
speaking  before  mothers'  clubs.  She  leaves  an  Irish  girl 
in  the  kitchen,  and  she  left  a  puling  old-maid  aunt  in  a 
bedroom  until  she  died  last  year.  The  children  are  coming 
up  like  puppies  in  a  kennel.  If  I  didn't  go  down  there 
every  forenoon,  and  take  a  hand,  they  'd  be  little  Esqui 
maux." 

Bess  glanced  at  him  quickly.  She  had  been  standing  in  a 
perfect  stillness,  like  a  statue  of  patience,  but  this  seemed  to 
move  her.  Catherine  gave  him  a  sudden  look,  full  of  the  old 
jealousy  that  came  of  her  being  a  childless  wife.  But  it  was 
Celia  who  spoke,  with  that  bright  interest  of  her  social  read 
iness. 

"  You  take  care  of  them  ?  What  are  their  names,  father  ?  " 

"  The  oldest  is  Timothy.  The  third  is  Anthony.  The  dar 
ling  girl  is  Antoinette.  I  have  never  troubled  to  learn  the  rest 
of  their  names.  I  begin  at  the  bottom  and  call  them  Teeny 
and  Tiny  and  Tony  and  Tonty  and  Tim." 

"  Delicious  !  and  those  are  not  their  names  ?  " 

But  Winterbourne  had  talked  enough  about  his  share  of 
it.  He  was  guiltily  getting  his  soft  hat  and  stick  from  the 
hall,  muttering  in  no  articulate  fashion,  but  to  give  himself 
countenance  for  deserting  the  domestic  field,  when  the  day 
was  so  near  lost.  Catherine,  as  his  hand  was  on  the  latch, 
slipped  out  after  him. 

"  John,"  said  she. 

He  waited,  and  looked  at  her,  frowning.  She  went  on  in  a 
lowered  tone,  suiting  the  extreme  of  caution. 

"  Don't  you  think  Mrs.  Ramsay  could  do  something  ?  " 

He  stared  at  her,  and  she  continued  looking  at  him  with 
her  pathetic  eyes. 

"  For  Lilian,  I  mean.  Get  her  a  hearing  somewhere.  She 
could,  surely.  Everybody  knows  her." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY         61 

Winterbourne  thumped  the  floor  with  his  stick  and  set  a 
guard  upon  his  tongue. 

"  I  should  rather,"  he  said  at  length,  "  put  the  girl  into  a 
factory  and  let  her  earn  day's  wages." 

"  What,  Lilian  ?  Don't,  John.  She  could  n't  work  in  a 
factory." 

"  Then  let  her  starve,"  said  Winterbourne,  opening  the 
door  and  stepping  out.  "We  '11  all  starve  before  we  conjure 
up  patronesses  out  of  Jellybys  and  the  women's  clubs  where 
they  riot  and  batten." 

Not  once  had  it  happened,  when  he  threw  himself  with  a 
kind  of  abandon  into  these  futile  rages,  that  his  wife  had 
laughed.  She  never  could  laugh.  They  were  solemn  earnest 
to  her.  Now  he  saw  the  tears  coming,  in  the  old  way,  and 
grasped  his  stick  and  strode  off,  furious.  Catherine  stood  a 
moment  watching  him,  despair  in  her  heart  and  on  her  face. 
Then  she  went  droopingly  in  and  Hunter  met  her  at  the 
door,  saying  in  a  wheedling  voice, — 

"Could  I  help  you,  Mrs.  Winterbourne,  about  moving 
furniture  round,  or  anything?  " 


IT  was  "down  the  road"  where  the  Ramsays  lived, 
though  Clyde  had  streets  now,  properly  bricked,  and  the 
road,  according  to  the  old  sense,  began  outside  the  assem 
blage  of  commodious  houses  and  ran  straight  to  the  wharves, 
smelling  ever  more  and  more  of  clams  and  tar.  But  Clyde 
was  all  country,  even  in  the  heart  of  it,  where  a  few  of  the 
old  houses  had  been  hatefully  transformed,  the  fences  re 
placed  by  a  stone  coping,  verandas  and  bow-windows  cruelly 
blotching  old-time  simplicities.  Living  was  very  peaceful 
here  because  the  individual  found  such  elbow-room.  If  a 
man  performed  the  oddest  antics,  he  was  not  perpetually 
reminded  of  them  and  his  after  peace  endangered.  The 
listeners  in  twenty  houses  where  the  little  bird  of  casual 
rumor  flew  at  once,  might  laugh,  for  the  general  sense  of 
humor  was  robust,  but  the  laughter  was  indulgent,  veined 
redly  with  the  recognition  that  human  nature  is  of  an  eccen 
tric  pattern,  and  who  knows  where  it  might  break  next, 
with  so  many  seams  across  ? 

It  was  a  kindly  place,  the  old  dovetailing  so  closely  into 
the  new  that  after  all  it  did  n't  know  how  new  it  was,  how 
ready  for  seed  which  should  not  be  all  poppy  and  balm,  as 
it  used  to  be  in  past  days  when  the  best  families  were  about 
all  heaven  was  expected  to  see  and  take  note  of,  and  the 
others  worked  for  the  best  ones  and  touched  caps  to  them 
almost  feudally.  It  was  quite  different  now,  the  outsider 
could  have  seen,  though  Clyde  itself  still  looked  at  its  own 
image  in  the  pond  and  thought  there  was  nothing  else  to 
be  mirrored  there,  except  of  course  the  blue  heaven,  and 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        63 

that  was  intended  for  a  background.  But  in  the  outskirts, 
people  of  another  sort  were  populous.  They  were  clammers, 
and  Dwight  Hunter  was  sending  the  clams  up  to  market. 
Certain  other  of  the  men  were  working  for  him  "  by  the  day," 
and  he  was  letting  them  out  to  the  more  prosperous  who 
wanted  lawns  kept  up  and  gardens  petted.  Then  there  was 
talk  of  starting  creameries  down  by  the  Point,  and  of  these 
also  Hunter  was  chief  prophet.  The  town  was  not  asleep, 
and  though  it  kept  its  older  attitude  of  somnolence,  it 
would  have  you  understand  that  presently  it  meant  to  be 
broad  awake. 

Winterbourne  went  striding  along,  pounding  with  his 
stick  which  he  did  not  need  with  any  middle-aged  man's 
necessity,  but  adopted  as  another  vehicle  of  utterance.  So, 
when  he  was  a  boy,  had  he  seen  his  grandfather  stride  and 
stamp,  but,  he  would  innocently  have  told  you,  his  grand 
father  had  a  whirlwind  of  a  temper  and  behaved  tempestu 
ously  indoors  and  out.  When  he  reached  the  Ramsays' 
house,  he  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  end  of  the  garden-path, 
chuckling  with  anticipatory  delight  to  see  how  many  faces 
were  at  the  window  awaiting  him.  There  were  four,  exactly 
the  count  he  had  expected,  and  he  prolonged  the  moment 
in  artful  contemplation  of  an  imaginary  something  he  was 
turning  over  with  his  stick,  to  whet  anticipation  to  its  limit. 

The  house,  a  rambling  square,  three-storied,  with  yellow 
paint  coming  off  in  blisters,  had  more  of  the  look  of  departed 
grandeur  than  Winterbourne's  own.  But  the  buds  had  be 
gun  to  swell  on  the  jessamine  wreathing  the  tall  rounded 
trellis  at  the  door,  and  it  could  be  seen  that,  when  spring 
was  fairly  at  work  upon  it,  the  tangled  luxuriance  of  the 
growth  would  be  wonderful.  A  window  came  up,  and  child 
ish  voices  rose  in  a  tyrannous  treble. 

"Come  along,  Jackie!  Come  along!  Come  along!" 


64        JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

Wmterbourne  raised  his  stick  and  shook  it  at  them. 

"  Put  down  that  window  !  "  he  returned,  in  stentorian 
measure,  "  or  you  '11  catch  your  deaths.  Put  it  down  !  If 
you  don't,  I  '11  turn  myself  into  a  snow  man  and  melt." 

The  cries  broke  into  giggles,  and  the  window  went  down 
swiftly.  Winterbourne,  vainglorious  over  his  own  discipline, 
strode  on  to  the  house  where  he  was  nobody  but  Jack,  by 
his  own  decree,  when  it  had  been  found  that  small  tongues 
stuck  on  the  plentiful  syllables  of  his  appropriate  name. 
The  door  had  not  closed  on  him  when,  with  a  chorus  of 
squeals,  the  four  were  upon  him :  Teeny,  the  baby,  very 
little,  in  blue  trousers  ridiculously  small;  Tiny,  the  next, 
also  trousered,  who  had  been  the  previous  year  what  Teeny 
was  now;  Tony,  very  much  of  a  boy,  he  thought  himself; 
Tonty,  the  girl  whose  hair  had  begun  to  be  long ;  and  Tim, 
really  grown-up,  who  lay  on  the  sitting-room  sofa  with  his 
long  legs  over  the  end,  figuring  on  a  piece  of  paper  backed 
against  a  book.  Winterbourne  loved  the  welcome  he  was 
getting,  three  children  clinging  to  his  hands  and  legs  and 
trying  to  climb  up  to  the  vantage-ground  of  his  shoulders, 
Tonty  standing  off  a  step  in  maiden  modesty  but  looking 
her  shy  adoration  and  her  plain  desire  to  be  at  the  climbing, 
and  Tim  calling  from  the  sitting-room, — 

"Come  in  here,  Jack."  He  could  compass  the  three  syl 
lables,  being  grown-up,  but  he  liked  the  privilege  of  short 
ening,  because  it  made  him  more  a  man.  "  Come  in  here 
before  you  let  those  nimshis  scuttle  you." 

They  all  went  in,  Tonty  now  by  Tim,  saying  in  her 
motherly  little  way, — 

"Get  up,  Tim.  You  don't  want  to  lie  there,  and  make 
Jackie  come  to  you." 

"Do,  too,"  said  Tim. 

He  said    it  impudently,  but  no  one  would  have  cared, 


JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        65 

because  he  was  such  a  pleasing  youth,  with  blue  eyes,  guile 
less  and  full  of  glee,  and  beauties  that  fulfilled  all  the  worn 
poetic  similes.  It  was  true  that  his  skin  was  roses  and  milk, 
his  hair  as  yellow  as  the  sun.  It  curled  with  a  vigor  he  re 
sented,  because  it  feminized  him  in  a  hateful  way.  Tim  was 
a  beautiful  youth,  although  he  did  not  look  at  all  as  he 
could  have  wished.  A  black-eyed  brigand  was  the  man  he 
would  have  liked  to  be.  Winterbourne,  seeing  him  in  his 
sun-god  radiance,  wondered  again,  as  he  often  had,  how 
Mrs.  Jellyby,  with  her  weatherworn  skin  and  her  unbusked 
redundances,  could  have  given  birth  to  such  glorious 
children. 

The  floor  about  the  reclining  Timothy  was  strewn  with 
scraps  of  paper,  all  closely  figured.  He  made  a  sweep  of  his 
long  arm  and  gathered  them  up. 

"  See  here,  Jack,"  said  he.  "  See  what  I  Ve  found  out  this 
morning." 

Winterbourne,  listening,  took  up  the  youngest  child  and 
settled  her  on  his  shoulder,  where  she  sat  still,  looking  gravely 
down  at  the  others,  as  if  being  enthroned  were  enough.  She 
had  no  sense  of  triumph,  it  was  evident,  only  a  grave  recog 
nition  that  fortune  had  come  to  her.  It  might  hit  any  of  the 
others  next  time,  this  Olympian  shower,  but  now  she  was 
the  beloved.  Tim  was  arranging  his  slips  with  deft  motions 
of  his  long  white  fingers. 

"If  I  had  bought  a  hundred  shares  of  Anakim,"  he  de 
livered  with  conviction,  "  bought  it,  that  is,  four  weeks  ago, 
I  could  have  sold  it  in  three  days  and  made  eight  hundred 
dollars.  Then  I  could  have  bought  two  hundred  of  Long 
Valley  —  it  was  down  right  then  —  and  made  a  thousand 
more.  Then — " 

Winterbourne,  supporting  the  child  with  one  hand,  put 
out  the  other  and  knocked  the  papers  to  the  floor. 


66        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  I  'd  rather  hear  you  blaspheme,"  he  said,  in  his  intem 
perate  outcry.  "  I  'd  rather  you  'd  curse  your  ancestors  and 
the  day  you  were  born  than  lie  here  making  up  fortunes  out 
of  the  stock-market." 

Timothy  grinned  at  him  in  a  fashion  as  sweet  as  any  girl 
could  compass,  and  hunched  himself  upon  one  side  to  poke 
the  pillow  under  his  back. 

"  You  're  an  awful  disappointment,"  said  he. 

"  Disappointment !  Go  to  work,  and  I  shan't  be  a  disap 
pointment.  Don't  you  know  the  sea,  the  ocean  with  a  million 
sails  - 

"A  million  stern-propellers,"  murmured  Timothy. 

His  beautiful  blue  eyes,  full  of  laughter,  were  on  Winter- 
bourne's  face.  But  he  did  not  laugh  really.  He  was  mostly 
too  lazy  to  do  that. 

"  The  ocean  is  at  your  door." 

"  No,  Jackie,  it 's  at  the  end  of  Bent  Bush  Road.  It 's 
three  good  miles." 

"  The  ocean,  the  sea,  man.  You  can  get  your  living  out 
of  it.  You  could  build  up  an  industry,  fish,  lobsters — " 

"You  and  Dwight  had  a  poor  haul  out  of  your  lobsters, 
did  n't  you?  Say,  Jack,  did  n't  you  ?  " 

"  We  did,"  Winterbourne  glowered.  Another  child  was 
clamoring  at  his  knee,  and  he  lifted  her  with  some  difficulty 
and  allowed  her  to  dispose  herself  on  his  other  shoulder. 
"The  lobsters  were  short.  We  threw  'em  back,  like  honest 
fishermen.  If  we'd  been  bent  on  our  infernal  gains,  we  should 
have  kept  'em  and  peddled  'em  out  to  farmers'  wives  who 
were  glad  to  get  'em  cheap  and  would  n't  have  told." 

"Jack,"  said  Timothy  pleasantly,  "  you  're  right.  You  're 
always  right.  I  ought  to  go  to  work.  I  can't.  That 's  all.  I 
can't." 

"  Then  you  can  jump  into  thesea,"  growled  Winterbourne. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        67 

"  You  don't  have  to  lie  down  in  the  morning  in  God  Al 
mighty's  sunlight  and  figure  up  dirty  fortunes  on  paper." 

At  his  first  drastic  recommendation,  Tonty  gave  a  little 
hurt  murmur,  seeing  in  fancy  her  Timmie  disappearing  be 
neath  the  waves.  At  once  Winterbourne  put  down  the  two 
children  gently,  both  in  an  arm-chair,  to  take  her  small  hand 
in  his  and  give  her  voiceless  comfort.  There  she  stood  hold 
ing  to  his  fingers,  after  a  little  breath  of  relief,  as  if  she  were 
sure,  in  that  friendly  grasp,  he  could  not  have  the  heart  to 
fling  Timothy  to  the  deep. 

"I  don't  know,"  continued  Timothy,  "whether  it's  be 
cause  we  're  vegetarians,  or  whether  it 's  because  we  have  n't 
inherited  anything  but  discontents,  but  I  'm  blest  if  I  've 
got  a  grain  of  peth  to  fight  with.  I  can't  work,  Jackie.  It's 
the  last  thing  I  could  do." 

"Then  buy  you  a  hecatomb  of  beeves,"  Winterbourne 
fulminated.  "  Sacrifice  them  and  eat  them  all  up,  and  get  some 
strength  into  you.  Don't  come  to  me  with  your  confounded 
stock-exchange." 

At  this  point  Tonty  left  him  and  slipped  forward  to  Tim's 
ear,  where  she  whispered, — 

"  Show  him  some  of  it,  Timmie." 

"Bah!  "  he  barked  at  her  like  a  little  dog  in  a 'way  she 
usually  accepted  with  ecstasy,  it  scared  her  so.  But  that  was 
at  times  free  from  care,  not  when  she  was  urging  him  to 
strengthen  himself  in  the  approval  of  their  darling  friend. 
For  she  it  was  who  knew  that  when  Tim  was  really  happy, 
actually  amusing  himself,  he  did  the  most  beautiful  embroid 
ery,  on  anything  he  could  find,  even  a  window-curtain  or  the 
skirt  of  mother's  wedding  dress.  Tim,  for  some  reason  mys 
terious  to  her,  was  ashamed  of  this.  He  brought  out  his  silks 
and  needle  when  he  was  tired  or  dull,  and  then  hid  them 
from  the  light. 


68        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

But  now  Winter-bourne  took  her  hand  again  and  turned 
aside,  leading  her,  as  if  she  were  a  very  honored  lady  with 
whom  he  was  about  to  begin  a  dance,  to  the  room  across  the 
hall.  This  the  children  had  made  their  own.  It  was  not  a 
nursery  by  decree,  but  they  had  rioted  in  it  and  settled  them 
selves  impregnably  in  corners,  so  that  it  had  been  easier  for 
the  family  to  withdraw  and  leave  them  eminent  domain.  The 
walls  had  been  painted  a  dark  green,  and  were  now  a  wilder 
ness  of  maps  and  animals,  done  in  chalk.  Here  was  the 
record  of  all  ages.  The  older  ones  had  tried  to  learn  their 
geography  lessons  by  trial  maps,  and  the  youngest  had  made 
the  simplest  sign-language  of  man  and  cow.  Once,  it  was  re 
membered,  Tonty,  from  a  housewifely  instinct,  had  started 
out  with  a  bowl  of  soapy  water  to  wash  the  paint,  not  that 
the  room  might  be  restored  to  conventional  freshness,  but 
that  the  artistic  vandals  might  find  a  clearer  field  for  opera 
tions;  but  as  she  came  upon  one  after  another  record  she  had 
been  so  wrought  upon  by  the  vision  of  old  days  that  she 
desisted,  and  left  the  medley  as  it  was.  The  room  was  chiefly 
now  a  treasure-house.  If  one  of  them  was  afraid  to  trust  his 
outdoor  possessions  without,  he  brought  them  in,  however 
inappropriately  they  fitted  house-furnishings,  and  there  they 
stayed.  There  were  croquet-balls,  an  old  vane  blown  down  by 
a  September  wind,  kitchen  utensils  rescued  from  the  dump 
because  they  might  serve  some  unforeseen  purpose,  and  the 
mixed  litter  of  real  toys  bought  in  the  market  but  not  so  dear 
as  all  this  stubble  from  the  field  of  life. 

Mrs.  Ramsay  hardly  ever  looked  into  the  room  now. 
Though  she  was  brave  enough  to  address  meetings  and  frame 
resolutions,  this  she  scarcely  dared.  She  called  the  children 
to  her  in  other  rooms  and  tried  to  ignore  the  certainty  that 
when  her  back  was  turned  their  really  happy  moments  were 
spent  in  a  limbo  of  toys  gone  mad.  But  they  loved  the 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        69 

room  and  so  did  Winterbourne.  Tonty  always  kept  the 
hearth  brushed,  and  whenever  the  weather  was  cool  enough, 
a  fire  burning.  Winterbourne's  big  chair  was  drawn  up,  as  it 
had  been  day  after  day,  and  there  were  little  chairs  and  stools 
also  ready,  lest  there  should  be  a  call  for  them,  chiefly  be 
cause  of  fairy  stories.  He  took  his  chair  gravely,  and  Tonty 
stood  beside  it  for  a  moment  until  she  could  fix  the  others 
with  her  eye.  She  was  mistress  of  ceremonies  and  they  knew 
it,  but  they  all  meant  to  evade  her  if  they  could.  She  was  a 
sweet  maid,  with  good  brown  eyes,  an  instinct  of  parted  lips 
that  made  her  very  pretty  while  she  listened  to  you,  and, 
what  was  to  Winterbourne  an  inexplicable  attraction,  a  colony 
of  freckles  on  her  nose. 

"Tony,"  said  she,  "it's  your  turn." 

Tony  gravely  took  the  stool  next  Winterbourne. 

"Now,  Tiny.  Now,  Teeny.  No,  you  aren't  going  to 
crowd.  Teeny,  you  must  n't  put  out  your  tongue.  There 
won't  be  any  story  if  you  do." 

Winterbourne,  also  according  to  custom,  rose  now  and 
made  her  a  ceremonious  bow,  indicating  the  little  chair  at  his 
right  hand. 

"Sit  there,  maidie,"  he  said. 

Whereupon  Tonty  dropped  a  curtsey  with  her  foot  prettily 
behind  her,  and  took  it.  They  had  both  found  it  was  highly 
difficult  to  settle  the  others  in  their  places  unless  Winterbourne 
was  also  in  his.  This  insurrectionary  surplus  seemed  to  feel 
that  the  base  of  operations  might  easily  change,  whereas  the 
quieting  effect  of  a  stationary  story-teller  was  evident. 

"  Once  upon  a  time  —  "  said  Winterbourne.  Then  he  put 
out  his  hand  for  Tonty's  and  she  gave  him  hers.  "  Once  upon 
a  time  there  was  a  frightful  ogre.  And  he  had  a  wife  who 
was  n't  an  ogress.  She  was  a  lady  and  very  beautiful.  And 
she  came  to  him  one  day  and  said  ( Ogre,  here  I  am,  and 


yo        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

here  are  two  daughters,  who  are  ladies  and  very  beautiful. 
What  are  you  going  to  do  with  us? ' 

He  ceased,  and  Tonty,  glancing  up  at  him  remindingly, 
saw  that  he  was  looking  into  the  fire,  not  as  he  often  did,  in 
high  pleasure  as  if  he  expected  to  find  a  million  things  there 
to  make  his  story  better,  but  as  if  he  had  hurt  himself  or 
somebody  and  felt  very  sad  indeed.  That  was  what  Tonty 
never  could  bear. 

"  Oh,  dear!"  she  said  under  her  breath. 

Tiny,  who,  though  a  ridiculous  mite,  had  the  greatest  un 
derstanding  among  them  all  of  the  naughty  possibilities  of 
life,  inquired  ruthlessly,  — 

"Did  he  like  his  wife?" 

"  No,"  said  Winterbourne  hopelessly,  as  if  out  of  a  dream 
where  it  would  do  no  harm  to  tell  the  truth.  "  I  don't  be 
lieve  he  liked  her.  Oh,  I  don't  know  whether  he  did  or  not ! 
He  never  could  tell." 

"  Well,"  said  Tiny,  putting  her  little  worn  shoes  nearer 
the  blaze,  "if  he  didn't  like  his  wife  and  didn't  like  his 
daughters,  he'd  kill  'em,  wouldn't  he?  Tell  now  how  he 
killed  'em." 

Winterbourne  started  out  of  his  reverie. 

"I  didn't  say  he  killed  'em,  did  I  ?  Did  I  say  that?" 

He  turned  from  one  to  another  of  the  pointed  faces,  and 
when  he  got  to  Tonty,  he  sighed  in  gratitude.  She  was  look 
ing  at  him  with  soft  eyes  and  shaking  her  head. 

"No,"  he  said,  "  of  course  he  didn't  kill  'em.  I  don't 
know,  though.  Maybe  he  killed  the  daughters.  Fie  would  n't 
kill  his  wife.  She  'd  suffered  enough  already." 

"What's  suffered?"  inquired  Tiny,  with  some  difficulty 
over  the  word. 

But  Winterbourne  did  not,  according  to  his  patient  wont, 
pause  to  answer. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        71 

"  We  could  kill  the  daughters,  though,"  he  said  hopefully. 
"There  'd  be  two  of  them  out  of  the  way.  No,  by  George! 
we  could  n't  kill  'em  both.  One  of  'em  's  got  to  live.  She's 
suffered  enough,  too.  Well,  the  ogre  did  kill  one  of  his 
daughters." 

Tiny  pulled  her  feet  back  from  the  blaze,  put  her  hands 
between  her  knees,  and  drew  her  breath  sharply  with  relish. 

"  How  ?  "  she  said.  "  How  'd  he  kill  her  ?  Make  it  long." 

"  The  ogre  took  a  sack  and  filled  it  with  barley-meal.  And 
then  he  called  his  daughter  and  said  to  her,  c  Put  this  barley- 
meal  together  until  you  have  grains  of  barley.  And  put  the 
grains  of  barley  together  until  you  have  heads  of  barley.  And 
set  the  barley  growing  in  the  field,  and  set  the  birds  to  sing 
ing  over  it  — 

"What  kind  of  birds  ?  "  Tony  inquired.  He  was  a  sports 
man  and  owned  a  pea-shooter. 

"  Blackbirds  and  swallows  and  bluebirds  and  robins,  those 
four  kinds.  c  And  if  you  can't  do  that,'  says  the  ogre, c  you 
will  be  killed  and  eaten  up/ ' 

Tonty  had  drawn  her  hand  away  from  the  large  one  hold 
ing  it.  He  thought  uneasily  that  it  was  done  in  a  mute  re 
proach.  Now  she  spoke  quite  firmly. 

"  I  could  finish  it,  Jackie." 

"  No  !  no !  no  !"  voted  the  chorusing  voices. 

But  Winterbourne  was  attending  to  her  very  carefully. 

"Yes,  I  guess  you'd  better  finish  it,  maidie,"  he  said.  "I 
don't  know  the  end." 

"  So,"  said  maidie,  her  eyes  upon  the  fire  as  she  knew  a 
real  story-teller's  were,  because,  as  Winterbourne  had  once 
confided  to  her,  there  was  magic  in  the  fire,  "  the  little  girl — " 

"  I  did  n't  say  she  was  a  little  girl,"  Winterbourne  inter 
rupted  her.  "You  mustn't  say  little  girl.  That  makes  me 
sorry  for  her.  You  must  say  just  c  daughter.'  " 


72        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  So  the  daughter  did  all  those  things,  and  then  she  did  n't 
have  to  be  killed." 

She  ended  in  a  triumph  at  once  to  be  quenched  by  the 
gloom  about  her. 

"  What 's  the  use  of  giving  stories  over  to  Tonty  and  let 
ting  her  bust  'em  ?  "  Tony  bitterly  inquired. 

The  tears  were  in  Tonty's  eyes. 

"  I  have  n't  ever  spoiled  one  before,"  she  lamented.  "  I 
haven't  ever  tried  to  finish  one." 

"  That 's  the  reason,  then,"  said  Tony.  "  Come  on,  Jack. 
Tell  another  and  keep  the  girls  out  of  it." 

Winterbourne  raised  himself  from  the  dream  of  his 
disordered  house  in  the  hands  of  three  wise  virgins,  and 
saw  that  something  must  be  done,  or  this  house  also  would 
revolt. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  all  hands  on  deck.  Trojan  war.  Tony 
begin,  and  tell  about  the  beauty  of  Helen." 

It  was  a  kind  of  game  where  all  the  most  poetical  talk  had 
place.  Tony,  who  would  have  opened  his  mouth  in  scornful 
laughter  or  a  child's  simplicity  if  the  beauty  of  a  modern 
woman  had  been  cited,  gravely  began  a  disquisition  on  the 
cause  of  the  Trojan  War.  He  spoke  of  that  he  understood 
not.  The  rape  of  Helen  became  a  commonplace  on  his 
tongue,  and  the  two  younger  children  listened  and  clasped 
their  knees  with  the  sense  that  it  was  a  real  story  and  that 
Tony  was  distinguishing  himself.  Then  Tonty  had  some 
thing  to  say  about  the  delay  at  Aulis,  and  Tony  was  again 
called  upon  to  describe  Achilles  sulking  in  his  tent.  At  in 
tervals,  when  Winterbourne  was  especially  pleased  with  their 
fluency,  he  was  caught  up  to  a  heaven  where  they  could 
not  follow,  and  mouthed  strange  phrases.  Some  of  the  lines 
Tony  caught  from  him  and  piped  them  in  his  childish  voice 
with  a  spirit  that  gave  Winterbourne  great  delight. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        73 

"  My  little  dears/'  said  he  at  length,  "you  are  beginning 
the  path  that  will  lead  you  to  the  only  world  worth  living  in." 

Then  they,  all  except  Tonty,  feeling  in  some  way  that  they 
were  very  popular  and  had  done  something  to  be  greatly 
commended,  climbed  upon  him  and  pulled  his  beard  and 
explored  his  garments  where  they  found  hot  strong  pepper 
mints.  Finally  he  put  them  gently  down.  He  rested  his  hand 
for  a  moment  on  maidie's  head  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Good-by,  folks,"  he  said.  "  Good-by,  little  dears." 

They  followed  him  in  silence  to  the  door.  It  was  an  ac 
cepted  discipline  now  that  there  should  be  no  whimpering, 
no  clamoring  to  stay.  Until  a  system  had  been  adopted,  the 
air  had  been  piercingly  fretted  with  farewells.  Winterbourne 
had  each  time  gone  forth  lashed,  he  had  felt,  by  a  rain  of 
tears. 

When  he  got  to  the  end  of  the  garden-path,  he  looked 
back  again,  and  there  they  were  as  they  had  been  to  greet 
him  — four  clustering  faces,  the  prettiest  of  nosegays  —  at 
the  glass. 

He  walked  home  slowly,  shy  of  what  he  was  to  find,  and 
went  almost  stealthily  in  at  his  own  front  door.  Catherine 
came  instantly  forward  to  meet  him. 

"  O  John,"  she  said,  in  an  agitation  imperfectly  con 
trolled,  "what  do  you  think?  Lyddy  's  locked  herself  into 
the  kitchen,  and  we  can't  any  of  us  get  in." 


VI 

THERE  they  stood  facing  each  other,  the  helpless 
master  of  the  house  and  the  mistress,  by  legal  right 
and  the  courtesy  of  habit,  their  feet  ensnared  in  a  do 
mestic  coil.  She  had  not  perhaps  found  time  to  formulate  an 
expectation  of  outspoken  sympathy,  but  it  never  could  have 
presented  itself  to  her  that  any  other  emotion  was  to  be 
awakened  by  so  foolish  and  yet  trying  catastrophe.  Winter- 
bourne  did  not  look  at  her.  He  stared  down  at  the  rug  and 
considered,  and  at  length,  having  stretched  her  patience  to 
breaking,  he  opened  his  lips. 

"  I  don't  know  what  we  're  going  to  do,"  he  evolved. 

"  Don't  know  what  we  're  going  to  do  ?  "  Her  amazement 
intensified  the  words.  She  gasped  over  them,  and  they  came 
explosively.  cc  Why,  what  is  there  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Winterbourne  seriously.  "  That 's 
what  I  say." 

"  You  don't  know  ?  Why,  there 's  but  one  thing.  The 
woman 's  crazy.  Discharge  her." 

Winterbourne  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  Catherine,  she 's  not  crazy.  Besides,  I  can't  discharge 
her.  She 's  entrenched  herself,  and  she 's  got  all  the  supplies." 

Suddenly  his  face  wrinkled  up  and  he  opened  his  lips  to 
a  loud  peal  of  that  consecutive  laughter  poetically  called 
Homeric.  His  wife  looked  at  him  in  a  pained  perplexity,  as 
if  she  dared  not,  without  consideration,  tell  what  she  really 
thought.  Winterbourne  sobered,  and  glanced  at  her  kindly, 
but  still  as  if  it  were  only  their  common  misfortune  that 
Lyddy  was  shut  up  in  the  kitchen. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        75 

"  Poor  old  devil/'  he  was  saying  in  his  beard.  "  You  Ve 
got  to  be  sorry  for  her.  You  can't  let  yourself  be  anything 
else.  It 's  her  kingdom.  She  's  reigned  over  it  till  she  's  old. 
Now  here  you  come  in  your  slippery  dresses  —  "  She  had 
no  idea  what  he  meant  here,  but  he  was  really  trying  to 
convey  his  own  terror  of  the  sound  of  silk  petticoats  under 
cloth.  "  It 's  scared  her  almost  to  death." 

"  I  see.  You  want  us  to  go  away." 

The  pathetic  eyes  sought  his,  not  reproachfully,  but  with 
extreme  mournfulness.  Winterbourne  made  haste  to  answer 
them. 

"Good  Lord,  no,  I  don't.  Yes,  I  do,  too.  That  is,  I 
wish  you  had  n't  wanted  to  come.  You  did  want  it.  And 
it's  best.  You  can  live  here  on  what  you'd  spend  in  car 
riages  in  New  York.  It 's  right.  It 's  best.  But  you  Ve  got 
to  give  us  time  to  get  used  to  it.  And  Lyddy  's  in  the 
kitchen." 

How  to  get  her  out.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  beard  and 
thought,  and  at  that  instant  some  one  came  down  the  stairs 
with  a  pace  of  quick  and  trained  activity.  Winterbourne 
stared  at  the  girl.  He  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  before. 
But  in  an  instant  he  cried  out,  — 

"  Why,  it 's  Bess!  "  And  then,  "  Where  did  you  get  that 
gown  ?  " 

She  was  carrying  a  broom,  and  she  stopped  before  him 
and  raised  quiet  eyes  to  his.  When  he  had  first  seen  her,  she 
had  been  pale,  with  no  sickly  pallor  but  rather  a  hue  of  de 
spondency.  Now  the  blood  seemed  to  have  flooded  all  the 
farthest  cells  of  her  and  wakened  them  to  a  glowing  life. 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  gown  ? "  Winterbourne  repeated, 
in  a  persistent  interest. 

She  looked  down  at  it  with  a  pleasure  of  her  own.  It  was 
a  brown  gingham  of  a  neat  pattern,  made  with  a  simple  waist 


76        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

and  plain  skirt.  Her  sleeves  were  rolled  high  from  the  round 
est  arms  he  thought  he  had  ever  seen.  They  looked  like 
strong  arms,  too.  She  glanced  deprecatingly  now  at  Cather 
ine  as  if,  from  that  quarter,  blame  might  be  expected. 

"  It 's  my  dress,"  she  said.  "  I  brought  it  with  me." 

She  spoke  as  if  it  were  especially  hers,  and  all  the  others 
that  had  been  slipped  on  her  after  she  left  her  humble  estate 
were  troublesome  lendings.  Winterbourne  nodded,  pleased 
with  her. 

"  That  was  the  dress  you  washed  the  floor  in,"  he  com 
mented. 

She  turned  to  him  with  that  look  of  earnest  inquiry. 

"  I  washed  a  good  many  floors  in  it,"  she  said  simply,  and 
her  voice  faltered. 

Winterbourne  looked  for  tears  in  those  eyes,  too,  femi 
nine  tears  were  so  mysteriously  imminent ;  but  their  steady 
clarity  was  undisturbed.  She  addressed  Catherine  now. 

"  I  could  n't  find  any  dust-pan.  I  swept  the  dirt  into  the 
fire." 

Catherine  shook  her  head,,  and  for  some  unformulated 
reason  took  the  broom  away  from  her. 

"  Have  you  got  your  hair  all  full  of  dust  ? "  she  asked. 
"  Do  you  remember  it  was  shampooed  only  yesterday  ? " 

<c  I  pinned  a  towel  over  it,"  said  the  girl  dutifully.  <c  But 
I  wish  I  could  find  the  dust-pan." 

There  was  a  melancholy  cadence  in  her  voice,  and  Win 
terbourne,  hearing  it,  thought  at  once  of  Philomela  weeping 
for  her  kindred  and  Cephalus  for  Procris,  and  burst  out 
laughing.  She  turned  to  him  now,  shamefacedly,  as  if  she 
were  not  used  to  pleasing  of  late  and  could  blame  nobody  for 
it,  and  Winterbourne  sobered. 

"  The  dust-pan  is  probably  in  the  kitchen,"  he  said.  "  But 
you  can't  get  in  there.  The  door  is  bolted.  Lyddy  Pendle- 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        77 

ton  stands  within,  her  arm  stretched  from  casing  to  panel 
like  Katherine  Barlass  of  old." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Bess,  not  smiling.  She  took  back  the  broom 
and 'went  on  through  the  sitting-room  with  it  while  Catherine 
shook  her  head  distastefully. 

"  Do  you  see  how  she 's  returned  to  type  ?  "  she  said  to 
him,  in  a  tone  cautiously  lowered.  "  Do  you  ?  Here  she  is 
dressed  like  a  lady  — or  she  was  when  she  came  —  waiting 
for  a  chance  to  make  herself  a  career,  and  what  does  she  do  ? 
She  drags  that  disgraceful  gown  out  of  a  trunk  where  she  's 
had  it  stowed,  nobody  knows  why,  and  she  's  happier  in  it 
than  she  's  been  all  these  months  that  Celia  and  I  Ve  been 
working  on  her." 

"  That 's  a  good  dress,"  said  Winterbourne,  still  chuck 
ling  at  the  lament  for  the  lost  dust-pan.  "  There  's  nothing 
the  matter  with  that  dress." 

"  I  tell  you  she  's  returned  to  type."  . 

"  Well,  where  's  Celia?   Has  she  returned  to  type,  too?" 

A  look  of  satisfaction  lighted  her. 

"  Celia  is  at  the  desk  in  the  west  room,  the  only  clear  spot 
she  can  find.  She  's  arranging  the  circular  we  mean  to  send 
round  to  women's  clubs  about  Lilian." 

"  Who  's  Lilian  ?  " 

They  had  walked  through  into  the  dining-room,  and  now 
she  turned  and  looked  at  him  as  if  she  found  him  daft. 

"  Lilian  ?  why,  Lilian  is  Celia's  sister.  You  Ve  just  been 
talking  to  her." 

"  No,  I  have  n't,"  said  Winterbourne.  "  I  Ve  been  talk 
ing  to  Bess  Hartwell,  plain,  pretty  Bess  Hartwell.  I  adore 
her  already.  And  look  at  her  !  " 

The  dining-room  was  in  the  main  part  of  the  square  house 
and  the  kitchen  extending  from  it,  at  right  angles,  had  two 
windows  and  a  door,  commanded  by  the  one  back  dining- 


78        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

room  window.  While  they  looked,  Bess  was  about  lifting 
one  of  the  kitchen  windows  by  its  lower  sash.  Her  broom 
leaned  against  the  wall.  She  now  mounted  an  old  chair  that 
had  been  sitting  in  the  shed,  and  stepped  from  it  lightly 
through  the  window.  Winterbourne  looked  at  his  wife,  and 
drew  a  breath. 

"That  girl,"  said  he,  "has  gone  into  the  arena.  She's  a 
Christian  martyr." 

"  Well,"  said  Catherine  practically,  "  now  she  can  open 
the  door.  Go  and  try  it,  and  if  she  has  n't  unfastened  it  al 
ready,  call  to  her." 

Winterbourne  put  a  restraining  hand  on  her  arm.  His 
face  worked,  but  his  tone  was  all  solemnity. 

"  No,  Catherine.  You  come  with  me.  I  '11  show  you  prints 
of  Tristram  Shandy  I  found  in  the  attic,  or  I  '11  repeat 
poetry  to  you.  I  Ve  been  learning  it  for  the  Jellybys.  But 
you, can't  interfere  between  the  lioness  and  the  martyr.  I 
won't  have  it." 

He  took  her  by  the  arm,  and  she  had  to  go  back  into  the 
sitting-room  where  there  was  a  fire  on  a  clean  hearth.  Win 
terbourne  looked  about  him  suddenly.  The  room  had  a 
colder  air,  yet  it  was  pleasant,  too.  He  had  never  seen  the 
tiles  of  the  hearth  glow  more  ruddily.  Suspicion  fell  upon 
him. 

"  Has  she  been  sweeping  here?  "  he  asked. 

Catherine  had  disposed  herself  prettily  in  Lovell's  arm 
chair,  and  now  put  out  her  foot  to  the  blaze. 

"  I  dare  say,"  she  returned,  with  a  studied  negation. 

Winterbourne,  laying  on  a  stick,  smiled  broadly. 

"  I  believe  she  has,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  What  a  little 
devil  for  brooms  and  dust-pans !  " 

Bess,  one  foot  in  the  kitchen,  stayed  poised  for  a  moment 
and  looked  about  her.  The  kitchen  itself,  in  its  mellow 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        79 

tints  and  the  suggestiveness  of  comfortable  uses,  pleased 
her.  She  saw  a  dozen  things  that  could  be  done  for  its  bet 
tering,  either  in  cleanliness  or  convenience ;  but  her  eye 
could  not  stay  for  that.  It  sought  out  the  bent  old  figure  in 
the  chair  by  the  hearth,  and  her  feet  took  her  to  it.  Lyddy 
looked  the  picture  of  inconsolable  and  silent  grief.  She  had 
done  none  of  her  tasks.  The  fire  had  gone  down,  and  her 
dishes,  for  lack  of  hot  water,  were  unwashed.  She  felt  her 
self  inundated  and  almost  drowned  by  the  influx  of  new 
things,  and  the  cruelty  of  it,  now  she  was  so  near  death,  was 
overwhelming  to  her.  Bess  halted  by  her  chair.  There  was 
indignation  and  ruth  in  her  pink  face.  She  looked  down  at 
the  gaunt  calico-covered  shoulder  and  forbore  to  touch  it. 

"  We  're  not  going  to  stay,"  said  she. 

Lyddy  gave  no  sign  of  hearing. 

"  She  would  n't  stay  for  a  thousand  dollars,"  the  young 
voice  went  on.  Lyddy  knew  unerringly  that  she  meant 
Catherine.  "You  couldn't  hire  her  to." 

The  homely  speech  meant  something  to  Lyddy.  She 
gave  a  little  grunt  and  a  lurch  in  her  chair. 

"  You  need  n't  do  anything  for  us,"  the  girl  continued, 
her  keen  glance  ready  to  note  every  responsive  change  in 
the  bowed  figure.  "  You  can  cook  for  him.  I  could  n't  suit 
him.  You  know  all  his  ways."  She  paused  an  instant  for 
that  shaft  to  strike.  "  I  '11  cook  for  them,  his  wife  and  Celia. 
You  let  me.  I  '11  clear  up  everything  I  get  round.  You 
need  n't  open  the  kitchen  door  if  you  don't  want  to.  I  '11 
take  things  out  through  the  window." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  said  Lyddy. 

Bess  felt  encouragement. 

"  Truly  you  need  n't,"  she  averred.  "  What 's  the  use  of 
having  folks  round  underfoot  in  the  kitchen  ?  You  let  me 
blaze  up  the  fire.  Come  !  " 


8o        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

Lyddy  turned  her  eyes,  almost  lost  in  their  map  of  wrin 
kles,  up  to  her  and  looked  her  slowly  over.  The  eyes  trav 
elled  from  her  face  down  the  brown  shoulder  to  the  round, 
strong  arm.  Then  they  went  back  to  the  face  again. 

"  You  some  o'  their  help  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  've  been  help  all  my  life,  here  and  there/'  said  Bess. 
"  I  'm  going  to  put  in  some  wood." 

She  did  it  with  a  practised  hand  while  Lyddy  watched 
her.  Not  a  movement,  as  the  old  woman  saw,  went  amiss. 
While  the  water  heated,  the  new  maid  piled  dishes  and 
washed  off  the  kitchen  table.  Lyddy,  vaguely  soothed  by 
the  accustomed  sound  of  the  fire,  got  up,  after  a  while,  and 
herself  put  in  a  stick. 

"  I  '11  do  that,"  she  said. 

Bess  was  lifting  the  cloth  over  the  rising  bread,  with  a 
wise  finger-poke  to  test  the  lightness.  Immediately  she  left 
it,  and  while  she  washed  dishes  Lyddy  moulded  bread. 

"  What  is  there  for  dinner?  "  asked  the  girl  at  length.  "  I 
could  make  'em  an  omelet." 

Lyddy  answered  gruffly,  — 

"  I  can  make  it  myself.  You  can  go  into  t'  other  part 
how.  The  table-cloths  are  in  the  press  in  the  back  entry." 

"I  '11  set  the  table  when  it's  time,"  Bess  told  her  gravely. 

She  unbolted  the  door  into  the  dining-room  and  left 
Lyddy  to  her  tasks. 

Winterbourne  and  his  wife  were  still  before  the  fire,  she 
talking  earnestly  and  he  holding  Lovell's  book  in  his 
hand  and  remembering  he  must  get  it  to  him  lest  Lovell, 
who  would  never  venture  into  this  vortex,  should  miss  it 
sorely.  Bess  made  her  declaration  briefly  and  with  great 
simplicity. 

"  She  does  n't  want  anybody  in  the  kitchen,"  she  an 
nounced  to  Winterbourne. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        81 

cc No/'  He  nodded  in  a  grave  concurrence.  "That's  fair 
enough." 

His  wife  took  up  the  case,  with  her  conclusive  air  of  mas 
tership. 

"  Not  want  anybody  in  the  kitchen  ?  You  've  just  been  in 
yourself,  Lilian?" 

"I  've  been  helping,"  said  the  girl.  "She  won't  mind  me. 
I  'm  her  kind." 

Mrs.  Winterbourne  turned  to  her  husband. 

"John,"  said  she,  "how  long  is  this  going  to  last?" 

He  was  wondering,  knowing  that  it  would  last  as  long  as 
the  invaders  chose.  But  he  answered  temperately,  with  a 
knowledge  of  her  side  of  it  and  also  a  concern  over  it, — 

"You  give  Lyddy  her  head.  It  isn't  much  to  ask,  this 
going  into  the  kitchen,  now  is  it  ?  What  do  you  want  to  go 
into  the  kitchen  for  ?  " 

"Lilian,"  said  Mrs.  Winterbourne,  "will  you  put  on  a 
decent  dress  and  come  in  here  and  sit  down  ? " 

The  girl  looked  at  her  with  eyes  beseeching  pardon. 

"I  can't,"  she  said.  "I  've  got  to  help  get  dinner." 

Then  she  disappeared  and  they  heard  the  opening  and 
shutting  of  drawers  in  the  back  hall  where  she  was  examin 
ing  the  stores  of  linen. 

Winterbourne  talked  hard  and  consecutively  in  the  next 
hour,  to  keep  his  wife's  attention  in  channels  sufficiently 
remote  from  kitchen  sieges.  Perhaps  he  told  her  things  he 
might  otherwise  have  kept  hidden.  For  instance,  he  said 
he  must  go  down  to  Jim  Lovell's  that  afternoon  and  carry 
his  Theocritus. 

"  I  remember  Mr.  Lovell  perfectly,"  his  wife  responded. 
"  He  wrote  poetry.  Does  he  write  any  now  ?  " 

There  was  that  terrifying  gleam  in  her  eye,  the  responsive 
spark  in  the  modern  woman  at  the  mention  of  accomplish- 


82        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

merit.  Winterbourne  had  forgotten  some  things  about  her. 
Once  he  would  have  known  that  the  proximity  of  a  poet 
meant  the  pursuit  of  him  for  the  illegitimate  purposes  of 
autographs  and  teas.  Yet  he  answered  her  unguardedly, — 

"He  writes  some,  I  believe.  Jim  doesn't  publish.  He's 
the  one  creature  I  know  that's  living  his  own  life." 

"Doesn't  publish?  Why  not?  Is  he  too  timid?" 

"Yes,  I  guess  Jim's  timid  —  before  certain  things." 

"  He  ought  to  be  pushed.  He  ought  to  have  somebody 
to  push  him." 

"  Oh,  no,  he  oughtn't.  If  you  pushed  him,  you  'd  push 
him  into  an  abyss,  the  one  where  all  the  asses  are  struggling 
for  notoriety.  Why,  see  here  !  "In  his  vindication  of  Lovell 
he  forgot  his  caution  toward  her.  She  seemed  to  be  a  certain 
part  of  the  eager  world  judging  a  man  who  was  not  of  its  kind. 
"  Lovell  had  some  money  left  him,  a  couple  of  years  ago. 
It  was  a  good  warm  lump.  To-day  there  isn't  a  sign  of  his 
having  it.  He  lives  in  his  little  garden  house  — " 

"  Garden  house  ?  What 's  that  ? " 

"  It 's  a  little  house  built  for  the  help  when  his  grand 
father  was  bringing  up  his  eight  children  and  wanted  the 
big  house  for  them.  Jim  lets  the  big  house  stand  idle,  and 
Mary  Manahan  helps  him  do  his  work  in  the  little  one." 

"Shocking!" 

"  No,  it  is  n't  shocking,  Catherine.  He  is  n't  like  me.  I 
collect  dirt  and  I  sit  down  and  thrive  in  it.  Lovell 's  as  neat 
as  a  bee,  in  the  cleanest  unpopulated  hive  you  ever  saw. 
What's  all  this  nonsense  about  women's  housekeeping? 
That  isn't  a  sacred  trust.  A  man  can  keep  house  as  well  as 
a  woman.  Some  of  'em  do.  Lovell  does." 

She  was  not  heeding  him.  The  moment  he  touched  upon 
abstract  defence  of  the  housekeeping  male  she  was  off  on 
more  personal  considerations  of  her  own. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        83 

"But  where  is  the  money?"  she  mused. 

He  looked  at  her  frowning  at  the  irrelevance  of  her  curi 
osity. 

"  Money?  I  don't  know." 

"  The  money  that  was  left  him." 

"  That  is  n't  the  point.  The  point  is  that  Lovell  did  n't 
use  it  to  bathe  in  as  some  of  them  do  and  wash  away  all  his 
natural  qualities.  He  stayed  unchanged,  just  as  he  was  when 
he  was  teaching  the  academy  here  and  writing  verses.  That's 
what  I  'm  trying  to  tell  you." 

"  Do  you  suppose  he  gave  it  away  ?  " 

Winterbourne  took  his  chair-arms  in  a  mighty  grip  and 
seemed  to  lift  himself  and  the  chair  with  him  by  a  kind  of 
inner  convulsion. 

"Jupiter,  Saturn,  the  Earth  and  Mars  !  Don't  I  tell  you 
I  don't  know?  Don't  I  tell  you  it's  not  my  business  or 
yours  either? " 

"  Is  he  of  a  philanthropic  disposition?  Is  he  interested  in 
the  arts  ? " 

Winterbourne  relaxed  his  grasp  and  seemed,  by  an  effort, 
to  bind  himself  to  the  chair.  Now  his  only  thought  was  of 
protecting  Lovell's  inner  mind  from  the  assaults  of  a  tele 
pathic  curiosity.  Lovell's  solitude  was  so  precious  to  him 
that  he  could  never  fancy  putting  a  question  to  disturb  it ; 
even  a  fantastic  care  had  to  be  observed  where  an  outer 
world  threatened  to  break  in.  It  was  impossible  to  classify 
his  friend  because  if  he  denied  him  one  set  of  qualities  she 
was  sure  to  trip  him  on  that  side. 

"  Lovell  has  n't  any  disposition  at  all,"  he  said,  out  of  his 
fervor  of  discretion.  "He's  neither  charitable  nor  unchar 
itable.  You  know  what  Lyddy  said  about  the  soap-grease 
man.  She  said  he  had  n't  a  trait  in  his  character.  That 's  Jim 
Lovell." 

\ 


84        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  You  don't  mean  your  friend  has  been  a  soap-grease  man  ? " 

Winterbourne  ground  his  teeth  at  her  and  gripped  at  the 
chair-arms  again. 

"  I  am  embroidering  my  talk  with  pearls  of  rhetoric,"  he 
said.  "  I  am  borrowing  from  Lyddy  to  describe  Lovell  the 
more  graphically.  I  tell  you  he  has  n't  a  trait  in  his  char 
acter." 

"  Is  he  as  negative  as  that  ?  " 

Winterbourne  rumbled  a  laugh  and  gazed  piously  at  the 
fire. 

"  That 's  Lovell,"  said  he. 

"  How  could  he  be  a  poet  ?  " 

"  Well,  maybe  Jim  is  n't  so  very  much  of  a  poet." 

"  I  must  make  a  point  of  meeting  him." 

Winterbourne  turned  upon  her. 

"  No,  you  won't,  Catherine.  I  don't  let  Jim  in  for  that." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  don't  want  me  to  meet  your  friends?" 

"  Not  Lovell.  Besides,  you  can't.  There 's  something  the 
matter  with  him." 

"What  is  it?" 

Winterbourne  considered  whether  Lovell's  unique  and 
roundabout  precaution  to  avoid  social  feats  would  do  here, 
in  the  face  of  such  an  eager  huntress.  Was  it  enough  to  be 
deaf?  She  would  ask  if  he  had  learned  the  lip  language  and 
volunteer  teaching  it  to  him. 

"  He  isn't  seeing  people,  that's  all,"  he  hammered  obsti 
nately.  "Jim's  not  up  to  it." 

<c  He's  not  tubercular?" 

"  Lord  ! "   Now  he  could  only  groan. 

"  In  that  case  I  should  feel  very  seriously  about  his  meet 
ing  the  girls." 

"Jim  is  n't  going  to  meet  the  girls,  or  any  girls.  It's  pre 
cisely  what  I  told  you." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        85 

"  I  believe  he 's  tubercular.  Does  he  take  the  open-air 
treatment?" 

At  that  instant,  with  the  swish  and  rustle  of  the  silk  Win- 
terbourne  hated,  but  which  he  welcomed  now  for  a  diversion, 
Celia  came  in  from  the  next  room.  She  had  pencil  and  paper 
in  hand,  and  she  perched  herself  on  the  arm  of  his  chair  and 
displayed  the  sheets  to  him. 

"  Papa,"  said  she,  in  the  cosiest  way,  "  you  know  all  about 
punctuation  and  proof-reading  and  things,  don't  you?" 

"Papa"  was  an  innovation.  She  had  been  taught  to  say 
"  father "  soberly,  and  although  it  wore  for  him  an  ironic 
flavor  he  did  not  really  mind.  But  the  diminutive  made  him 
wriggle  mentally  and  wish  the  feminine  did  not  have  to  ex 
press  itself  in  mosaic.  She  was  offering  him  the  sheets  more 
definitely. 

"  These  are  Lilian's  songs,  her  little  repertory.  I  'm  mak 
ing  out  an  announcement  for  clubs.  What  do  you  think? " 

Winterbourne  fumbled  for  his  eyeglasses,  and  she  found 
them  for  him,  with  odious  quickness,  pounced  delicately,  and 
seemed  about  to  set  them  on  his  nose.  But  their  clouded 
state  struck  her,  and  she  made  a  pretty  face. 

"I'm  going  to  rub  them  !"  she  announced,  with  a  bright 
suggestion  of  usefulness  that  made  him  wince.  He  saw  it  go 
ing  further  and  further,  into  his  desk  even,  and  ordering  his 
papers  about.  She  was  breathing  on  the  glasses  in  a  charming 
hurry,  and  now  she  rubbed  them  with  her  little  handkerchief. 
"  There  !  "  she  said. 

Winterbourne  felt  that  he  really  couldn't  endure  it  if  she 
put  them  on  his  nose,  and  took  them  from  her.  He  accepted 
the  sheet  of  paper  and  looked  at  it. 

"  '  Eattil  batti !  '  Really  ?   Does  that  child  know  Italian  ? " 

"  Oh,  no,  only  enough  to  sing.  She  learns  her  songs,  you 
know." 


86        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  Oh  ! "  He  scanned  it  again,  frowning,  and  gave  it  back 
to  her.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  your  words  are  all  right.  But  it 
seems  to  me  a  poor  slatternly  way  to  do." 

"What,  papa?" 

"  To  learn  like  a  parrot  and  sing  what  you  don't  know 
the  meaning  of." 

"  But  she  does,  in  a  way.  She's  been  taught  the —  why, 
the  kind  of  emotion  that  goes  with  them,  and  it's  perfectly 
easy  to  put  it  in.  It  ought  to  be  easy,  I  should  say,"  she 
added  as  a  wondering  afterthought,  remembering  how  im 
possible  her  sister  found  it  to  warm  at  call. 

If  Celia  had  had  the  voice,  she  knew  she  would  by  this 
time  have  had  also  money  and  a  name.  It  was  bitter  to  her 
that  her  sister  showed  no  sign  of  earning  either.  She  wanted 
them  for  Lilian  who  did  not  crave  them  for  herself,  and,  it 
sometimes  seemed,  wilfully  forbore  to  work  for  them. 

"It's  bad  business,"  Winterbourne  was  saying,  "cheap, 
miserable  business  jockeying  with  a  language  when  you 
have  n't  learned  to  respect  it." 

"  Is  n't  that  interesting,  papa  ?  "  she  recalled  herself  from 
her  musings  to  say  brightly.  "  It 's  so  quaint." 

Winterbourne  thought  over  that  in  a  puzzled  helplessness. 
He  had  never  been  in  the  set  where  she  had  moved  at  inter 
vals,  chiefly  in  travelling,  and  no  one  had  told  him  that  a 
part  of  the  modern  game  of  smartness  lies  in  the  using  of 
words  outside  their  natal  meaning.  He  was  to  learn  that  Celia, 
with  a  steadfast  will,  conformed  seriously,  even  in  little  ways, 
to  what  the  world  thought  prettiest.  It  was  always,  now,  for 
Lilian.  Often  she  got  quite  tired  of  fitting  herself  to  dull 
conformities ;  but  how  otherwise  should  she  make  a  way  for 
Lilian  up  that  difficult  path  ?  Winterbourne  did  not  know 
this  now,  its  pathos  and  its  weariness.  He  only  wished  she 
would  get  off  the  arm  of  his  chair  and  take  a  seat  like  a  lady, 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        87 

or  help  her  sister  who  was  still  stirring  about  the  dining- 
room.  He  was  human  enough  in  his  softness  toward  lovely 
things,  and  a  young  girl's  caressing  dutifulness  might  easily 
have  seemed  moving  to  him  ;  but  Celia,  because  his  wife  had 
moulded  her,  was  a  part  of  the  exactingness  of  trivial  duties. 
She,  like  his  wife,  was  a  policeman  despatched  from  the  puis 
sant  social  world  to  arrest  him  in  the  midst  of  his  innocent 
pursuits  and  drag  him  back  to  some  hideous  service  before 
the  gods  that  world  worshipped. 

As  they  sat  there  in  silence  for  a  moment,  a  sound  arose 
from  the  next  room,  a  song  most  movingly  simple,  in  a  voice 
borne  upon  a  wind  of  content,  as  if  the  singer  were  happy 
about  little  tasks.  Celia  sat  so  still  that  she  seemed  to  be  hold 
ing  a  hand  upon  her  heart  to  bid  it  beat  more  softly.  The 
color  flushed  her  face.  She  looked  adorably  happy  and  eager. 
This  was  the  first  time,  she  knew,  that  they  had  heard  her 
sister  voluntarily  singing  since  she  had  been  captured  and  put 
in  a  cage  to  sing.  Winterbourne  felt  the  hot  tears  in  his  eyes, 
brought  there  as  only  the  great  heroic  things  had  ever  brought 
them.  A  picture  sprang  before  him  of  the  old  life  he  loved, 
of  honey  in  jars,  and  bread  and  wine,  of  "  our  brother  the 
ox,"  and  simple  content,  of  dreams  of  the  unconquered  earth 
and  islands  yet  to  find.  And  at  that  moment  the  song  ceased 
and  Bess  came  in,  still  in  her  brown  serving-dress,  though 
the  sleeves  were  down,  and  said  to  them  with  a  simple 
courtesy,  "  Dinner 's  ready." 

Celia  for  an  instant  did  not  move,  her  sister  looked  so 
different  to  her.  The  cowed  and  patient  air  was  gone.  She 
had  a  gay  color  and  a  lovely  light  was  in  her  eyes.  They 
would  never  sparkle  and  gleam  like  Celia's  own,  because 
they  had  only  a  gentle  unconscious  humor  to  express;  but 
they  glowed  now,  with  a  subdued  fire.  Celia  rose,  threw  her 
paper  and  pencil  on  the  table,  and  put  an  arm  about  her. 


88        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

Bess  smiled  faintly  at  her,  as  if  she  loved  her  without  much 
hope  of  making  it  evident  in  quite  the  right  way,  but  as  Celia 
gave  her  a  little  spontaneous  hug,  she  did  light  a  little  more 
brightly,  and  they  went  out  into  the  dining-room  behind 
Winterbourne  and  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Winterbourne,  when  she  saw  the  table,  gave  a  sigh 
of  pleasure.  At  last,  it  said,  some  magic  had  been  wrought 
upon  the  ruin.  Civilization  had  been  brought  into  it.  In 
spite  of  the  yellowed  linen,  the  table  was  almost,  in  a  simple 
way,  perfection.  There  were  even  flowers,  a  few  yellow  cro 
cuses  in  a  glass.  Lyddy  and  Bess  together  had  conjured  up 
a  soup,  for  both  of  them  knew  the  art  of  mixing  the  rem 
nants  of  another  day  and  enlivening  them  with  condiments. 
Bess  moved  in  and  out,  serving  them,  and  took  her  place 
when  they  were  helped.  Catherine  looked  a  remonstrance  at 
that,  but  remembering  the  locked  door  and  the  kitchen's 
potential  impregnability,  evidently  made  up  her  mind  to  ac 
cept  it  for  the  present  satisfactory  moment  and  bring  about 
justice  when  she  could. 

Winterbourne  found  he  liked  the  atmosphere.  Here  was 
a  table  and  a  fire  burning  on  the  hearth,  here  were  three 
pretty  women  to  look  at.  As  he  ate  he  warmed,  and  forgot, 
for  a  moment,  the  curtailment  of  his  liberties.  It  was  Celia 
who  led  the  talk,  with  charming  insincerities  of  interest  in 
what,  Winterbourne  knew,  did  not  fit  her  actual  tastes.  But 
he  was  being  fed  and  munificently  forgave  her ;  he  need  not 
listen  very  hard.  One  touch  of  nature  there  was  in  her  real 
curiosity  about  Dwight  Hunter.  He  was  quite  unusual,  she 
proclaimed ;  but  when  it  was  explained  to  her  that  he  was 
not  really  an  expressman  or  really  a  ploughman,  except  by 
choice,  and  that  he  had  a  college  career  behind  him,  she 
seemed  to  welcome  the  harmonizing  of  things. 

"  That  explains  it,"  she  said,  with  great  satisfaction. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        89 

"Explains  what?"  Winterbourne  asked. 

"  Why,  he  's  a  gentleman.  Lilian,  did  n't  you  feel  that  he 
was  a  gentleman  ?  " 

The  other  girl  always  seemed  to  respond  patiently  when 
she  was  called  Lilian ;  but  she  was  bringing  in  the  omelet, 
evidently  soothed  in  all  ways  by  its  completeness,  and  could 
answer  out  of  that  primary  interest,  "  I  did  n't  know." 

"  What  is  a  gentleman  ?  "  asked  Winterbourne. 


VII 

LOVELL  was  lost  without  his  friend  and  his  evening 
haunt.  For  the  last  three  years  he  had  spent  several 
hours  of  every  day  with  Winterbourne,  keeping 
pace  with  him,  approximately,  in  Greek ;  and  when  Win 
terbourne  dropped  off  after  his  wife  got  home,  Lovell  felt 
bereft.  He  stepped  about  his  little  camping  house,  —  a  long 
living-room,  a  bedroom  and  a  kitchen,  —  and  even  after 
Mary  Manahan  had  done  her  daily  adjusting  in  an  ever- 
fresh  domain,  made  himself  homespun  tasks,  then  to  settle 
down  in  the  austere  quiet  of  it,  to  read  and  write.  He  had  a 
hatred  of  disorder  in  the  measure  of  Winterbourne's  toler 
ance  of  it,  and  his  little  shell,  though  it  was  wholly  lacking  in 
touches  of  ornamentation,  gave  a  feeling  of  light  and  space. 
A  workman  of  any  sort,  in  the  arts,  or  even  a  lover  of  the 
aspects  of  life,  would  have  been  happy  there.  It  had  two 
requisites  of  beauty  and  comfort :  the  fireplaces  were  large 
and  the  furniture  was  old.  Lovell,  a  hermit  in  a  village  way, 
had  not  thought  before  how  much  he  depended  on  Winter- 
bourne  for  the  bread  of  life,  —  silent  accord,  great  laughter, 
kindred  tastes.  Perhaps  without  him  and  his  own  careless 
days  undisturbed  by  womenfolk  or  concession  to  civil  de 
mands,  he  might  not  have  been  living  so  contentedly  in  his 
little  house,  mirthfully  escaping  ladies  who  forced  upon  him 
gentle  hospitalities.  Winterbourne  had,  without  effort,  made 
the  eccentric  way  seem  perfectly  feasible  and  natural :  to 
Hunter,  also,  who  lived  alone,  when  he  was  not  driving  about 
the  country  on  his  various  missions,  he  too  relying  on  Mary 
Manahan  to  keeD  for  him  a  pretence  of  outer  comfort. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        91 

On  the  fifth  night,  when  Lovell  was  settling  to  his  book, 
—  a  solitary  pursuit  now,  almost  become  a  task,  —  Winter- 
bourne  came.  Lovell  heard  him  pounding  down  the  path,  an 
offshoot  from  the  driveway  to  the  great  house,  threw  open 
the  door,  and  stood  there,  an  image  of  the  ready  host.  It 
was  a  night  suddenly  cold,  and  Winterbourne  had  resumed 
his  winter  greatcoat  with  the  cape.  He  wore  a  slouch  hat 
and  carried  a  stick ;  he  was  a  picturesque  figure  of  another 
time  when,  even  in  men's  attire,  the  flowing  line  prevailed. 
He  came  in  silently,  laid  his  books  on  the  table,  and  threw 
aside  his  coat. 

Lovell,  in  his  anticipation  of  renewed  comradeship,  looked 
quite  boyish.  His  eyes  glowed  and  his  sanguine  cheeks  had 
color.  These  last  nights  the  room  had  been  expectant  of 
Winterbourne's  coming,  table  ready  to  be  drawn  up,  two 
chairs  waiting  by  it,  and  the  mugs  yawning  for  beer. 

Winterbourne  threw  himself  into  one  of  the  chairs  and 
drew  a  long  breath.  He  wrinkled  his  forehead  as  if  pathet 
ically  remembering  forsaken  cares,  and  then  looked  about 
the  room.  He  spoke  interrogatively  and  with  a  suggestion 
of  weariness,  — 

"  I  guess  we  shall  like  this  just  as  well,  Jim  ?  " 

Lovell  nodded.  It  was  to  be  perfectly  recognized  between 
them  that  Winterbourne's  own  house  had  been  rendered 
uninhabitable  by  the  advent  of  sprightliness  and  beauty. 
Lovell  laid  his  hand  upon  a  book. 

"Ready?"  he  asked. 

Winterbourne  was  too  tired  with  some  subtile  weariness 
of  nerve  or  spirit.  He  did  not  answer,  but  sat  soaking  in 
the  quiet  of  the  place. 

"  Hunter  's  there  all  the  time,"  he  volunteered. 

"At  your  house?" 

"  I  believe  he  likes  it.     He  moves  furniture  and  puts  up 


92        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

curtains.  They  're  putting  up  curtains,  Jim,  over  the  whole 
damned  place." 

"By  George!" 

Lovell  glanced  about  his  own  living-room  and  thought 
how  clever  he  had  been  to  abjure  a  curtain-breeding  creature 
there.  But  Winterbourne,  head  raised,  was  looking  at  him 
as  if  he  had  in  that  instant  made  a  discovery. 

"  It  is  n't  the  curtains,"  he  said.  "I  vow  I  believe  it  is  n't 
the  curtains." 

"What  is  it?" 

The  pregnant  "  it "  was,  Lovell  knew,  his  discontent  at 
the  general  complexion  life  had  suddenly  assumed. 

"  The  curtains  are  well  enough.  I  don't  know  but  I 
think  they  soften  the  light  a  little.  It 's  what  they  stand 
for." 

He  was  going  too  fast  now,  for  Lovell  had  not  learned 
exactly  what  species  of  womankind  the  marauders  were. 
He  had  even  stayed  out  of  the  public  streets  as  much  as 
possible  and  taken  to  the  spongy  woods,  because  he  was 
afraid  of  meeting  them.  Winterbourne  was  regarding  him 
solemnly. 

"  I  have  an  idea,"  he  said,  "  that  when  they  've  got  the 
curtains  all  up,  —  that  won't  be  yet:  Bess  is  sitting  in  a 
low  chair  hemming  them  with  little  stitches,  —  when  the 
curtains  are  done  and  up,  they  '11  give  a  tea." 

The  two  men  exchanged  a  glance  of  solemn  meaning, 
Lovell's  all  commiseration,  knowing  what  his  friend  fore 
saw,  and  Winterbourne's  prophetic  of  what  Lovell,  too, 
was  in  for. 

"  They  're  going  to  rope  you  in,  my  boy,"  he  announced. 
"They  're  on  your  trail." 

Lovell  looked  nervously  about  him. 

"  What 's  the  use  of  talking  that  way,  Winterbourne," 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        93 

he  said,  with  a  false  courage.  "  I  don't  go  to  teas.  Every 
body  knows  I  don't  go  to  teas." 

"  Man  alive,  you  've  written  poetry." 

"That  was  years  ago.  I  can't  be  hauled  up  now  for  that 
old  offence." 

"The  volume  is  on  tables  all  over  this  town.  My  wife 
has  seen  it.  She  saw  it  in  Mrs.  Jellyby's  sitting-room.  Do 
you  want  me  to  show  you  what  kind  of  a  woman  my  wife 
is?  She  wrote  Mrs.  Jellyby  a  note,  and  it  kept  Mrs.  Jel- 
lyby  at  home  a  whole  forenoon.  What  do  you  think  of 
that  for  a  triumph  ?  I  went  to  see  the  kids  as  usual,  and 
they  were  all  crying  like  murder  because  their  mother  was 
going  to  dress  them  up  so  my  wife  could  inspect  them  when 
she  called." 

Lovell  was  not  acutely  interested  in  the  Ramsays,  but 
only  in  his  own  prospects  of  escaping  teas  for  as  long  as 
he  could  imagine  time  to  last. 

"I  scooped  up  as  many  of  the  kids  as  I  could  carry  and 
retreated  into  the  orchard  with  them,"  Winterbourne 
brooded.  "  I  was  n't  going  to  have  them  crammed  into 
their  best  tuckers  and  used  for  a  show,  poor  little  men  and 
women." 

"  I  don't  see  what  they  want  of  the  children,"  Lovell 
said,  in  a  tone  of  similar  gloom,  as  if  the  purposes  of 
womankind  bent  on  social  schemes  were  nefarious,  to  be 
unravelled.  They  might  have  been  ogres  hungry  for  chil 
dren.  Nor  did  Winterbourne  see.  He  knew  Celia  professed 
an  interest  in  the  children,  and  thought  it  human  in  her 
and  sweet,  but  it  was  beyond  his  guessing  that  Celia,  in 
this  campaign  for  her  sister's  advancement,  eagerly  and  with 
a  pitiful  care  sought  out  the  means  to  please. 

"  My  wife  called  on  Mrs.  Jellyby,"  he  continued,  unfold 
ing  as  if  before  his  own  mind  also  the  facts  he  had  not 


94        JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

been  able  to  correlate  in  the  fever  of  their  happening. 
"She  said  she  must  do  it  in  the  forenoon  because  Mrs. 
Jellyby  would  be  away  every  afternoon  about  her  public 
duties.  She  said  she  had  to  call  herself  because  she  could  n't 
wait  for  Mrs.  Jellyby  to  call." 

"  Why  could  n't  she  ?  "  Lovell  thought  he  could  have 
waited  a  long  time  for  that  consummation. 

"  Because  Mrs.  Jellyby  is  a  great  woman." 

This  Winterbourne  delivered  with  the  air  of  making  an 
exact  quotation  and  Lovell  had  nothing  to  return  but 
"Oh  !  "  Now  Winterbourne  laid  his  hand  upon  the  books. 
"  Come,"  said  he,  "let 's  get  to  work."  But  they  were  not 
yet  forgetfully  absorbed  in  the  flow  of  sound  when  Winter- 
bourne  looked  up  again.  "  Jim,"  said  he,  as  if  he  might 
have  to  quarrel  with  somebody,  "should  you  say  Mrs. 
Jellyby  's  a  great  woman  ?  " 

Lovell  looked  at  him  blankly  and  shook  *his  head.  That 
seemed  to  be  sufficient  and  they  relinquished  the  subject  as 
if  it  were  a  heaviness  they  plumped  back  into  the  sea,  a 
bad  uneatable  fish  that  might  be  allowed  to  live  because 
nobody  could  tackle  him,  and  turned  to  their  books. 

An  hour  or  so  later  there  was  a  step  at  the  door. 

"  That 's  Dwight,"  said  Winterbourne,  stopping  in  his 
reading. 

"  No,  it 's  not  Dwight.   He  'd  come  in." 

The  visitor  knocked  instead,  and  Lovell  went  to  the 
door.  It  was  Tim  Ramsay,  looking  very  lank  in  a  loose 
greatcoat,  the  collar  turned  up  to  his  ears  and  his  hands 
buried  in  the  pockets.  He  wore  a  queer  cap  of  Tony's  be 
cause  his  own  could  not  be  found,  —  Tony  had  explained 
that  he  had  that  afternoon  been  playing  Prince  Rupert's 
men  with  it,  —  and  it  turned  him  into  a  handsome  bright- 
eyed  wood-creature  of  an  older  time  than  ours,  —  the 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        95 

time  that  could  offer  a  faun  or  a  satyr  in  the  dancing 
lights. 

"Just  let  me  in,  Lovell,"  he  said,  "  if  you  've  got  a  fire. 
It 's  a  horrible  night  for  spring." 

Lovell  closed  the  door  after  him  and  Winterbourne  looked 
kindly  up  at  him  while  he  stood  on  the  hearth  and  warmed 
his  long  white  hands. 

"  The  way  I  hate  the  cold  !  "  said  Tim.  He  tossed  his  cap 
into  the  wood-basket  with  an  emphatic  precision.  "  I  'd  rather 
starve  than  feel  a  shiver.  I  'd  rather  hear  one  of  mother's 
speeches.  I  'd  rather  anything/' 

"What  are  you  out  in  it  for  ?  "  Jim  inquired  inhospitably. 

But  he  had  drawn  forward  another  chair  and  now  heaped 
the  fire.  He  kept  a  store  of  apple-tree  brush  in  the  kitchen, 
and  some  of  that  he  brought  in  for  the  sudden  heat  and 
glow. 

Tim  had  thawed  a  little,  and  now  he  looked  handsome  in 
his  perfection  of  color,  handsome  and  audacious. 

"Jackie,"  said  he,  "  how  's  ear-trumpets?" 

"  Has  that  got  round?"  said  Winterbourne,  with  the  air 
of  settling  it  as  a  topic.  "  I  gave  a  trumpet  to  a  woman  that 
was  raging  up  and  down  the  night  screaming  because  her 
mother  was  deaf." 

"I  know  it.  Her  name's  Ann  Staples.  She's  Lyddy's 
cousin.  She  and  Lyddy  don't  speak.  Her  mother's  had  a 
fight  with  Lyddy,  and  they  Ve  moved  away  to  Sacker's  Falls 
because  Lyddy  owns  half  their  house  here  and  the  front  entry 
can't  be  divided  and  they  won't  go  out  of  half  Lyddy's  front 
door,  and  they  won't  not  go  out  because  that  makes  it  seem 
as  if  Lyddy  had  the  rights  on  't." 

"  Come,  come,  Lovell,"  Winterbourne  beat  in  impatiently. 
"  Let 's  get  to  work." 

"Got  another  trumpet,  Jackie?"  Tim  was  insisting. 


96        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  Ear-trumpets  are  not  like  pocket  handkerchiefs,  silly 
Billy.  I  don't  create  'em  by  the  dozen." 

"  Have  n't  you  a  model,  Jackie  ?  How  did  you  have  this 
one  made,  if  you  did  n't  have  a  model?" 

"  Yes,  I  had  a  model,  Timothy.  But  that  trumpet  was 
made  many  a  year  ago.  I  invented  it  for  my  mother,  and  she 
used  it  for  two  years,  and  she  said  they  were  the  happiest 
years  of  her  old  age." 

Winterbourne  had  forgotten  his  book  at  last.  He  sat  brood 
ing  into  the  fire,  and  Lovell,  who  knew  he  was  thinking  of  a 
vanished  •  time,  was  also  silent,  because  he,  too,  had  such 
things  to  muse  upon.  But  Tim  was  not  silent.  His  mother  was 
very  much  alive  in  some  region,  uncharted  for  him,  giving  a 
lecture ;  and  mothers  were  not,  according  to  his  experience, 
matters  for  sentiment. 

"  Where  's  your  model,  Jackie  ?"  he  persisted. 

Winterbourne  turned  upon  him. 

"  Why,  you  young  gadfly,"  he  demanded,  "  can't  you  drop 
a  thing  when  it's  done?  No,  I  haven't  a  model.  If  I  had 
one,  and  I  suppose  I  did,  to  have  the  thing  made,  it 's  gone 
to  blazes  long  ago.  I  haven't  thought  of  it  for  years.  They've 
both  been  down  here — both  of 'em  —  in  the  old  house,  ever 
since  mother  stopped  using  'em." 

"  Both,  Jackie?   Got  another  one?" 

"  Yes,  I  've  another  one.  Mother  got  so  nervous  with  only 
one  between  her  and  the  void  I  had  to  have  her  another  made 
to  keep  her  quiet.  I  got  one  out  for  Lyddy  one  day  when  she 
said  the  robins  did  n't  sing  as  they  used  to.  She  was  mad  as 
a  hornet." 

Tim  was  curving  his  handsome  face  into  droll  grimaces. 
Lovell,  it  was  evident,  had  become  the  object  of  his 
mirth. 

"  Mother  says  poor  Mr.  James  Lovell  has  an  affliction  in 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        97 

his  deafness,"  he  threw  in  impishly.  "  I  never  noticed  you  were 
deaf,  Jim." 

"  It 's  intermittent,"  Lovell  answered. 

Timothy  looked  very  alert,  bright  of  eye  and  color. 
Winterbourne,  scanning  him  with  his  kindly,  absent  glance, 
thought  he  was  what  Lyddy  would  call  a  likely  boy,  but  poor 
in  wind  and  blood,  lacking  the  physical  endurance  that  leads 
to  mental  stamina. 

Another  step  struck  the  doorstone  and  the  door  opened 
to  Dwight  Hunter.  He  was  not  cold  in  his  short  leather 
jacket  with  the  collar  turned  back  from  his  flannel  shirt. 

"  Good  boy,  Hunter!"  Winterbourne  called  like  a  view- 
halloo. 

Lovell  drew  in  the  beer  from  a  porch  where  it  had  been 
cooling.  He  brought  mugs  and  some  store  supplies  of  crack 
ers  and  cheese,  and  they  made  a  semicircle  about  the  hearth. 
Hunter  was  on  his  way  down  for  the  mail,  he  said.  Mrs. 
Winterbourne  wanted  it  particularly. 

"Jackie,  is  that  Celia's  sister?"  Tim  was  asking,  with  a 
new  and  alert  interest. 

"  Is  what  Celia's  sister?" 

"The  darling  girl  with  the  brown  eyes.  She  came  to  the 
door  when  I  called  at  your  house  just  now." 

"No.  It  was  Lyddy." 

"  Lyddy !  Lyddy !  I  guess  so.  Tell  that  to  the  pimpernels 
on  the  lea." 

"  It 's  Lyddy's  business  to  go  to  the  door,"  said  Winter- 
bourne,  with  a  gruff  implication.  "  There  are  no  females  at 
my  house  known  as  darling  girls." 

"  Oh,"  croaked  Timothy,  "that  all  ?  Well,  she  was  a  dar 
ling  girl,  just  the  same." 

Hunter  looked  as  if  he  thought  small  things  of  Tim,  and 
could  have  mentioned  some  of  them  if  he  would.  Young  as  he 


98        JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

was  and  splendidly  attuned  to  the  call  of  life,  he  had  never 
before  plunged  so  eagerly  into  the  small  intimacies  of  domes 
tic  happenings.  It  was  a  new  thing  for  him  to  be  setting  a 
house  in  order  for  gracious  ladies  with  pretty  ways  who  seemed 
to  think  of  everything  he  did  in  terms  of  the  most  abounding 
gratitude.  Two  of  them,  at  least,  were  so  responsive.  The 
other  was  softly  quiet,  but  when  tasks  were  to  be  done,  she 
played  into  his  hands  with  an  unaffected  readiness  that  made 
things  move.  The  thought  of  the  three  women  hurried  him 
to  get  back  to  them.  He  drained  his  mug  and  set  it  by,  ris 
ing  as  he  did  it. 

"  I  'm  going  to  be  down  at  the  shack  for  two  or  three 
days,"  he  said. 

Winterbourne  knew  there  was  business  in  that  pleasure. 

"What  for?"  he  asked. 

"  I  've  got  to  do  some  things  to  it.  Put  a  new  sill  under 
the  west  end.  If  I  don't  do  it  now  there  won't  be  time  all 
summer.  You  don't  want  to  come  along,  do  you?"  He  in 
cluded  Lovell  and  Winterbourne  in  his  glance.  "  You  could 
go  clamming  when  the  tide  serves.  I  should  have  a  horse 
down  there,  and  you  might  rattle  up  the  clams  for  the  ex 
press,  one  of  you.  I  shan't  come  back  nights.  We  could 
have  a  blanket  apiece  on  the  floor." 

This  was  philanthropy.  Hunter  loved  to  play  with  his 
mates,  but  he  had  a  hidden  purpose  in  taking  Winterbourne 
away  from  his  own  house  until  it  should  be  rehabilitated. 
Hunter  thought  it  quite  natural  for  three  dear  ladies  to  want 
to  make  their  surroundings  bloom  like  themselves.  He  had 
an  idea  that  when  Winterbourne  got  fairly  broken  to  har 
ness  he  would  like  it  as  well  as  anybody,  and  it  hurt  his 
newly  recognized  ideals  tremendously  to  see  ladies  working 
at  such  odds,  tacking  down  rebellious  carpet-corners,  mend 
ing  chair-cushions,  while  the  lion  of  the  household  kept  growl- 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY        99 

ing  out  his  dissatisfaction.  Hunter  would  have  said  that  all 
three  ladies  were  working  pathetically  hard,  but  somehow 
when  he  conjured  up  the  vision  of  them  it  was  only  Bess  he 
saw  in  humble  postures. 

"  Let  me  go,  Dwight,"  said  Timothy,  from  the  chair  where 
he  sat  hunched  together.  "  I  never 've  been  on  any  of  your 
touts.  I  'm  going/' 

"  No,  you  're  not,  Tim,"  said  Hunter,  standing  for  his 
last  staring  moment  by  the  fire. 

"Why  ain't  I?" 

"Ain't  invited." 

"  Oh,  come,  Dwight,  I  'm  going." 

"  Can't  let  you,  Timmy.  You  'd  be  cold." 

He  went  off  clanging  the  door  behind  him  and  whistling 
down  the  walk,  and  Tim  sulked  patently,  until  he  brightened 
with  a  thought. 

"  I  'm  going  anyway,  Jackie,"  said  he  pleasantly.  "  You  '11 
stand  by  me." 

After  he,  too,  had  gone,  the  other  men  settled  down  to 
their  reading  and  made  a  quiet  night  of  it.  But  when  Winter- 
bourne  got  home  at  something  after  two,  he  found  his  wife 
by  the  fire  waiting  for  him.  She  had  on  what  he  called  some 
kind  of  a  soft  loose  thing  that  gave  her  an  air  of  domesticity. 
She  wore  the  look  he  deplored  in  her  because  it  tired  him, 
a  bright  readiness  as  if  she  never  slept.  While  she  was  smil 
ing  at  him  in  the  wifely  manner  that  meant  to  carry  no  re 
proach,  he  found  himself  saying,  — 

"  Get  to  bed.  Get  to  bed.  How  do  you  expect  to  be  a 
healthy  woman  if  you  don't  have  your  sleep?  " 

"  I  could  n't  imagine  where  you  were,"  she  said  irrele 
vantly. 

"  I  went  down  to  Lovell's  to  smoke  a  pipe  and  read.  I 
might  have  told  you." 


ioo      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

He  would  have  liked  to  smoke  another  pipe  by  his  own 
fire,  but  that  would  have  put  lead  into  her  shoes,  and  he 
stood,  waiting  for  her  to  go.  She  was  gazing  down  at  the 
floor,  thinking.  Presently  she  looked  up. 

"When  am  I  going  to  meet  your  Lovell  ?"  she  inquired. 

"  Meet  Lovell  ?  You  can't  meet  Lovell.  Nobody  can,  as 
you  call  meeting.  He's  invisible.  He  doesn't  exist." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  does."  She  was  affecting  something  merry 
to  persuade  him  and  it  tired  him  instead.  "  I  shall  do  it  some 
time.  Don't  you  think  it's  rather  selfish  of  you  two  to  have 
your  readings  all  by  yourselves?  Let  us  come.  It  would  be 
lovely  for  the  girls." 

Winterbourne  looked  at  her  in  a  speechless  wonder.  When 
he  spoke,  it  was  very  gently,  because  he  distrusted  his  own 
voice  :  — 

"  Let  me  put  out  the  light,  Catherine.   Run  up  to  bed." 

"  Good-night,"  she  said. 

She  had  reached  the  door,  the  old  feeling  of  defeat  upon 
her,  the  certainty  that  if  they  could  pass  through  a  veil,  a  fog, 
they  might  meet  face  to  face.  But  she  tried  too  hard  to  pierce 
it,  and  it  enfolded  her  the  more. 

"I'm  off  early  in  the  morning,"  he  said,  good-natured 
enough  now  that  she  would  go. 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  To  Hunter's  shack.  We  're  going  to  camp  there  for  a 
few  days,  he  and  Jim  and  I." 

"  We'll  come  down  and  call  on  you."  It  was  radiant  sug 
gestion  from  her  undimmed  freshness  of  approach. 

"  Don't  you  do  it,  Catherine."  He  forbade  it  wearily. 
"  We  're  going  carpentering  and  clamming.  We  shall  be  all 
plastered  over  with  gurry.  You  stay  here  and  weave  your 
web  and  ravel  it  out  again." 

She  was  standing  in  the  doorway,  pale  from  her  vigil  and 


JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       101 

appealingly  sweet,  and  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  him  while  he 
came  with  the  lamp  to  light  her  way. 

"  What  shall  I  ravel  it  for  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a  settled  wist- 
fulness.  "  There  are  n't  any  suitors." 

Her  eager  subtlety,  her  readiness  to  meet  him,  was  one  of 
the  things  that  separated  them.  If  she  would  be  content  to 
blur  the  edges  a  little,  to  forget,  to  leave  the  foolish  past  to 
itself  and  welcome  every  day's  sunrising,  they  could  have  had 
pleasant  human  intercourse.  She  was  determined,  he  saw,  to 
speak  by  the  card.  That  was  the  kind  of  readiness  society 
had  given  her,  the  limbo  where  it  was  necessary  to  cap  one 
phrase  by  another. 

"Then  I  shan't  see  you  again,"  she  was  saying,  as  she 
looked  back  at  him. 

"  No,"  he  returned,  with  the  loud  cheerfulness  that  aims  to 
reassure.  "Good-night!" 


VIII 

WINTERBOURNE  had  gone,  and  his  house  set 
tled  down  into  that  especial  peace  which  attends 
the  avocations  of  the  mice  when  their  enemy  is 
removed.  Catherine,  with  the  forever-undone  task  of  charm 
ing  her  husband  no  longer  in  hand,  relapsed  into  the  disor 
dered  kingdom  of  tired  nerves,  and  Celia  ran  over  the 
house  after  her  sister,  reminding  her  to  practise.  Bess,  for 
the  first  time  denying  her  captors  anything,  omitted  to  com 
ply.  The  word  was  gently  said,  but  it  was  final.  She  could 
not  practise,  she  explained,  while  there  was  so  much  work 
on  hand.  Nor  could  she  travel  back  and  forth  to  the  city 
to  be  manicured  and  have  her  hair  waved.  She  would  not 
even  change  her  dress  save  from  one  serviceable  neatness  to 
another.  Then  said  Catherine, — 

"  At  least,  Lilian,  you  must  preserve  your  hands.  It 's 
perfectly  dear  of  you  to  help  us  out,  —  and  as  for  Lyddy,  I 
should  think  she'd  adore  the  ground  you  walk  on,  —  but 
you  must  work  in  gloves/' 

Returned  to  household  verities,  Bess  found  a  courage  she 
had  modestly  conserved  in  Catherine's  field  of  administra 
tion.  Now  she  spoke,  in  a  tone  all  softness,  yet  immutable. 

"  You  can't  work  in  gloves." 

She  had  been  counselled  to  call  Catherine  mother,  but 
though  she  responded  with  a  grateful  "  Thank  you,"  as  to 
an  invitation,  she  had,  with  some  skill,  avoided  doing  it,  and 
her  denuded  form  of  direct  address  sounded  to  Catherine 
wilfully  harsh.  Here  was  another,  Catherine  thought  griev- 
ingly.,  who  had  no  love  for  her. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       103 

When  Mrs.  Ramsay  sacrificed  an  afternoon  really  due  at 
a  committee  meeting  in  town,  and  came  to  call  upon  them, 
Bess  herself  went  to  the  door.  Mrs.  Ramsay  standing  there 
on  the  step,  large,  uncorseted,  but  handsome  with  her  sin 
cere  eyes  and  worn  face,  careless  that  her  clothes  were  of  the 
fashion  of  years  long  gone,  ignorant  that  dolmans  no  longer 
held  a  universal  sway,  and  that  a  fichu  revealing  a  middle- 
aged  throat  was  not  permissible,  asked,  at  the  pace  of  one 
who  has  far  more  miles  to  trot  before  sundown  than  her 
common-sense  shoes  could  compass,  for  Mrs.  Winter- 
bourne,  and  seemed  not  to  know  she  was  addressing  one  of 
Mrs.  Winterbourne's  daughters.  Bess  led  her  into  the  par 
lor,  and  sought  out  Catherine  in  Celia's  room  considering 
neckwear,  wretchedly  ironed  by  the  town  laundress,  and 
needing,  Bess  saw,  with  a  professional  eyebeam,  a  "going 
over." 

"  Change  your  waist  and  come  down,"  Catherine  bade 
her,  and  Celia  affectionately  added,  — 

"Your  skirt,  too,  dear.  You  can't  see  anybody  in  that." 

When  Catherine  and  Celia  entered  the  sitting-room,  Mrs. 
Ramsay  was  using  her  moment  of  waiting  in  scanning  a 
pamphlet  with  her  near-sighted  eyes.  Beside  her  on  the 
floor  lay  her  yawning  bag.  She  was  the  picture  of  benevo 
lence  unregulated  by  any  art.  In  her  girlhood,  more  than 
one  had  emphasized  brown  as  her  color,  and  since  then  she 
had  worn  gowns  of  a  dull  serge,  when  she  could  get  it,  or 
if  that  failed,  another  material  but  the  same  hue.  When  she 
was  told,  as  it  sometimes  happened,  that  there  was  no  serge 
of  her  shade,  she  felt  a  vague  indignation  against  a  world  so 
ill-regulated  as  not  to  fulfil  one  of  the  laws  of  its  own  be 
ing.  But  however  uncertain  the  quest  of  the  serge,  she  had 
it  made  in  the  fashion  of  her  mother's  earliest  years,  with  a 
basque  buttoned  in  front,  scanty  at  some  points  and  unrea- 


104      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

sonably  voluminous  in  others.  On  this  topic  of  clothes  she 
had  also  been  perhaps  too  deeply  influenced  by  the  por 
trait  of  her  great-aunt,  who  had  wanted  to  be  a  lawyer,  and, 
though  she  had  qualified  for  the  profession,  had  found  her 
self  too  early  at  the  gate  and  had  sat  through  bitter  years 
without  a  case.  At  a  time  when  large  sleeves  were  worn, 
Mrs.  Ramsay  was  highly  approving,  because,  she  said,  they 
allowed  the  muscles  play;  and  after  a  capricious  world  veered 
to  a  constricted  shape,  she  kept  her  pattern  and  gave  her 
arms  their  will. 

Now  she  tucked  the  pamphlet  into  her  bag  with  an  ac 
customed  haste,  and  rose  to  meet  her  hostess,  to  whom  she 
accorded  a  warm  handshake  and  a  delightful  smile  with  a 
glimpse  of  perfect  teeth.  But  at  Celia  she  looked  searchingly, 
as  at  a  possible  candidate  for  some  sort  of  honors. 

"  So  this,"  she  said,  "  is  our  young  lady." 

Celia  responded  with  her  own  charming  smile  and  a  little 
bend  of  deference  and  pleasure. 

"  No,  I  'm  only  Celia.   Lilian  is  the  one  that  sings." 

They  sat  down,  and  Mrs.  Ramsay  looked  from  one  to 
the  other  with  the  air  of  collecting  earnest  information. 

"  She  is  here  with  you  ?  "  she  pursued.  "  I  should  like  to 
see  her." 

Catherine,  who  had  not  much  idea  whether  Bess  was  at 
the  moment  changing  her  dress  to  appear  or  plunging  into 
some  of  the  mad  pursuits  she  affected, —  window-washing  or 
the  mixing  of  bread,  —  rose  to  find  her  and  engineer  her  en 
trance  in  proper  form. 

"  You  are  so  good  to  come,"  said  Celia,  filling  up  the 
first  pause. 

Mrs.  Ramsay  ignored  that.  She  was  so  simply  convinced 
of  being  everywhere  that  her  duty  constrained  her  to  be,  that 
it  seemed  waste  of  time  to  make  it  a  subject  of  platitude. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      105 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  have  come  here  to  live/*  she  said, 
"  very  glad  indeed.  This  is  your  father's  home." 

"Yes,  this  is  papa's  home." 

"  I  came  to  Clyde  rather  late.  I  have  n't  much  taste  for 
parochial  gossip,  but  I  did  gather  that  this  was  his  home  by 
inheritance.  Were  you  and  your  sister  born  abroad  ?  " 

"Oh  no,"  said  Celia,  "we  were  born  in  this  country. 
Mamma  and  I  have  been  travelling  abroad  lately." 

"  Your  sister  was  studying  there,  I  presume." 

Celia  hesitated.  Her  color  grew  and  gave  her  for  an  in 
stant  a  look  of  shyness.  She  answered  then,  in  a  quiet  com 
monplace,  — 

"  Not  all  the  time." 

"  But  she  has  studied  abroad?" 

Again  the  little  hesitation,  like  a  click  before  the  words. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

Then  Catherine  and  Bess  came  in.  The  girl  had  slipped 
into  the  plainest  of  white  dresses.  She  had  acquired  also  her 
patient  look  of  being  led,  if  not  against  her  will,  yet  certainly 
not  warmly  with  it.  Mrs.  Ramsay  bestowed  upon  her  the 
same  benignant  handshake,  and  stood  off  a  little  looking  at 
her,  with  dropped  chin,  so  that  the  plumpness  of  the  neck 
augmented  itself  maturely. 

"Whom  did  you  study  with?"  she  inquired.  But  Celia 
was  moving  about  the  chairs,  and  somehow  the  question 
stayed  unanswered. 

Mrs.  Ramsay  was  patient  when  that  happened.  She  really 
hardly  knew  it,  because  life  seemed  to  her  such  a  stress  and 
haste  that  before  an  answer  was  fairly  voiced  she  was  flying 
on  to  another  question.  It  seemed  to  her  often  as  if  people 
had  already  handed  in  evidence  when  they  were  only  collect 
ing  themselves  to  break  ground. 

"You  must  tell  me  all  about  it,"  she  recommended  Celia. 


io6      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  Write  it  down  on  a  little  slip.  Write  on  one  side  of  the 
paper  only.  Remember  that,  dear,  won't  you  ?  Just  tell 
where  she  studied  and  where  she  has  sung  and  those  things 
that  interest  people.  Pupils!"  It  came  explosively  because 
she  thought  of  it  in  a  flash  and  it  seemed  to  her  the  thing. 
"  Should  you  like  some  pupils  ?  "  she  added,  and  turned  to 
Bess,  who  was  regarding  her  with  a  slow  gravity,  as  if  she 
were  a  peculiar  lady  to  be  watched  lest  she  fire  at  you  a 
question  you  could  n't  answer. 

"  I  can't  teach,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  know  enough.  I  don't 
know  anything  about  singing  myself,  not  the  first  thing." 

That  was  surprising,  but  as  Mrs.  Ramsay  looked  at  the 
others  and  found  them  unmoved  and  smiling,  she  concluded 
she  could  not  have  heard  quite  clearly.  "  Let  us  always,"  she 
was  accustomed  to  say,  when  she  had  not  listened  hard 
enough  or  facts  had  afterwards  escaped  her,  "  let  us  always 
give  them  the  benefit  of  the  doubt."  Winterbourne,  who 
had  heard  her  say  it  in  her  vaguest  moments  of  being  all 
abroad  over  the  kingdoms  of  an. earth  needing  reconstruc 
tion,  said  it  was  the  facts  themselves  to  which  she  meant  to 
accord  that  benefit. 

Mrs.  Ramsay  had  lost  herself  for  an  instant  in  one  of 
those  remote  excursions  that  served  her  for  sleep,  if  one 
could  ever  fancy  her  as  sleeping.  In  these  brief  flights  she 
seemed  to  forsake  the  topic  she  had  been  intensely  regarding, 
as  one  rests  the  eyes  after  long-continued  work  with  a  lens, 
and  looks  temporarily,  though  no  less  painstakingly,  at 
something  else. 

"  Your  husband,"  she  said  to  Catherine,  "  is  an  old  friend 
of  James  Trenton  Lovell." 

"  An  old  friend,"  Catherine  acquiesced.  Then  an  echo  of 
her  husband's  confidence  reached  her  from  somewhere  back 
in  her  library  of  facts,  though  not  the  memory  that  it  was  a 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      107 

confidence,  and  she  added,  "  Mr.  Lovell  inherited  some 
thing,  did  n't  he  ? " 

Mrs.  Ramsay  bowed  in  a  forensic  manner. 

"  There  was  a  rumor  of  it,"  she  said,  "  but  it  was  n't  con 
firmed.  It  was  in  the  air.  Previous  to  that  time  Mr.  Lovell 
left  his  consulate  and  retired  to  the  little  house  where  he  lives 
now.  His  habit  of  life  has  not  changed.  I  fancy  the  report 
was  exaggerated."  Having  rested  the  eyes  of  her  mind,  she 
transfixed  Celia  with  the  honest  orbs  of  her  actual  vision. 
"  Did  n't  I  understand  you,"  she  inquired,  "  that  your  sister 
had  studied  abroad  ?  " 

Celia  was  sitting  straight  in  her  chair,  her  lips  a  little 
apart  as  if  she  were  listening  keenly  to  what  might  be  to  her 
benefit  or  her  apprehension.  Suddenly,  at  the  question,  her 
face  flushed  into  a  vividness  of  response,  extreme  interest, 
defiance  even. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  in  the  clearest  voice, "  my  sister  studied 
abroad." 

Catherine  drew  a  quick  breath  and  went  over  to  replace  a 
fallen  log.  Bess  sat  immovable,  her  hands  clasped  in  her 
lap  as  she  had  been  sitting ;  but  her  brown  eyes,  fixed  on  the 
green,  mistlike  trees  through  the  window,  slowly  filled  with 
tears. 

"  Were  you  abroad  together?"  Mrs.  Ramsay  continued. 

"  Yes,"  said  Celia,  in  the  same  perfection  of  interest. 
"  Mamma  and  I  were  there  over  two  years.  I  'm  sorry  we  Ve 
no  piano  here,  Mrs.  Ramsay.  Lilian  could  sing  for  you." 

Bess  got  up  from  her  chair  and  went  to  the  window 
where  she  seemed  to  be  looking  intently  into  the  street.  But 
she  saw  only  a  patch  of  crocuses  by  the  gate.  The  plough 
had  escaped  them,  and  they  sprang  there  like  gold  bubbles 
blown  in  the  face  of  the  sun.  They  seemed  to  her,  at  the 
instant,  the  only  friendly  thing  she  had  met  since  she  left 


io8      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

her  hard  routine  of  work  for  a  rougher  road.  Mrs.  Ramsay 
was  rising,  a  process  of  some  difficulty  because  she  had  to 
collect  the  articles  she  had  shed  from  her  during  this  tem 
porary  encampment,  and  plunge  through  her  bag  for  a  hasty 
inventory  of  things  which  should  be  there.  At  last  she  was 
drawing  on  her  gray  lisle  gloves  and  recapitulating  her  course 
of  action.  She  ignored  Bess,  only  because  the  girl  appeared 
to  be  withdrawn  by  some  modesty,  some  inherent  aloofness, 
from  their  colloquy.  When  the  business  aspect  of  her  sing 
ing  was  touched  upon,  she  seemed  not  even  to  be  in  the 
room :  Catherine  and  Celia  had  recognized  that,  in  a  subtile 
unconscious  way,  and  were  accustomed  to  talk  in  her  pre 
sence  as  if  she  were  not  there  at  all. 

"  If  you  will  have  her  sing  for  a  charity —  "  Mrs.  Ramsay 
was  remarking. 

"  Oh,  anything !  "  Catherine  asseverated. 

"  I  might  get  her  a  hearing.  I  will  mention  her  to  the  club 
women  I  meet.  Mrs.  Winterbourne,  this  has  been  a  great 
pleasure.  I  regard  you  as  an  acquisition  to  Clyde/' 

She  shook  hands  again  seriously  with  the  two  who  were 
vividly  crowding  upon  her  with  professions  of  interest  in  her 
coming,  and  forgot  the  silent  figure  at  the  window,  facing 
them  now,  but  out  of  their  circle.  Celia  went  with  her  to  the 
door,  and  when  she  returned,  flushed  with  the  fervor  of  charm 
ing,  she  found  Bess  quieter  than  before,  if  that  could  be,  as 
still  as  a  bird  on  its  nest  when  the  hunters  are  looking,  and 
Catherine  in  a  nervous  rage  of  anticipation.  There  was  one 
topic  which  Catherine,  as  she  had  told  her  husband,  had  never 
broached  to  her  daughter.  Why  she  had  not,  when  she  dwelt 
on  it  almost  to  the  extinction  of  her  powers,  she  could  not 
have  said.  It  might  have  been  terror  of  the  ill  in  the  girl  which 
seemed  to  be  coming  out  now  in  this  incredible  falsifying. 
It  might  have  been  the  instinct  to  cover  an  unlovely  thing, 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      109 

the  well-bred  attitude  of  ignoring  what  is  to  another's  shame, 
But  now  at  last  she  knew  the  moment  had  come  when  her 
self-control,  tired  by  her  husband,  tired  by  Lyddy  even,  who 
cooked  stolidly  in  her  kitchen  stronghold  and  refused  to  re 
cognize  the  existence  of  mistresses,  tired  by  the  passivity  of 
Bess  who  seemed  to  yield,  but  only  flowed  like  water  into 
another  form,  —  her  armor,  before  she  knew  it,  was  off,  and 
she  stood  there  shaking  for  all  the  arrows  of  unkindliness 
to  wound;  knowing  from  old  memory  of  her  scenes  with  her 
husband  how  little  appeal,  reproach,  the  storm  of  tempera 
ment  avail,  she  yet  hurled  her  missile  at  Celia  who  was  enter 
ing  the  room. 

"  How  could  you,  oh,  how  could  you  !  " 

Bess,  with  the  quietest  motion,  had  walked  round  the  in 
tervening  chairs  and  ranged  herself  at  Celia's  side.  She  stood 
there  looking  down  at  the  floor,  an  image  of  control,  even 
of  meek  forbearance,  but  she  seemed  not  to  be  taking  sides 
with  any  one  even  to  the  point  of  hearing.  Celia,  head  up 
and  cheeks  glowing,  was  looking  her  mother,  who  had  the 
position  of  her  adversary,  straight  in  the  eye. 

"What?"  she  asked.  "How  could  I  do  what?" 

Catherine  felt  herself  daunted  by  the  look.  But  the  word 
was  at  her  lips,  and  she  uttered  it  brokenly  :  "  Lie." 

A  little  wave  of  motion  went  over  Bess,  a  shudder  im 
perfectly  repressed,  but  Celia  did  not  flinch. 

"  You're  tired,  mamma,"  she  said  pleasantly,  though  her 
voice  rang  with  an  unnatural  force.  "  Nobody  lies.  It 's  hor 
rid  to  do  that." 

Now  righteousness  and  truth  were  with  Catherine,  because 
she  saw  them  insulted  and  it  made  her  no  longer  afraid. 

"You  haven't  lied?"  she  repeated,  the  hot  flash  in  her 
eyes,  a  thrill  in  her  voice.  "  You  did  n't  tell  her  your  sister 
studied  abroad?" 


no      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  Did  I  ?  "  said  Celia,  with  a  coolness  which  yet  seemed 
not  to  be  insolence  at  all.  "  I  did  n't  know  I  told  her  so." 

They  stood  confronting  each  other,  Catherine  breathless 
now,  terrified  by  the  moral  crisis.  She  turned  to  Bess. 

"  Bess,"  she  said,  forgetting,  in  the  awfulness  of  the  mo 
ment  the  other  name  she  had  given  her,  "you  heard?  " 

Bess  did  not  lift  her  eyes. 

"You  heard,"  Catherine  continued,  —  "your  sister  told 
Mrs.  Ramsay  you  had  studied  abroad.  You  heard  that." 

Now  the  girl  opened  her  lips,  still  without  looking  up. 
Her  voice  crept  through  faintly  as  if  it  had  scarcely  strength 
to  come  at  all. 

"  I  have  n't  heard  anything." 

Catherine  stood  staring  at  them,  as  if  she  doubted  her  own 
ability  to  understand,  even  to  see  and  hear. 

U6h,"  she  breathed  at  last,  "I  can't  bear  this.  I  must 
see  my  husband." 

As  she  hurried  to  the  door  it  was  Celia  who  stopped  her 
with  entwining  arms,  Celia  whose  cheek  was  pressed  against 
hers,  and  who  laughed,  speaking  at  a  high  pitch,  with  a  note 
that  seemed  forced  and  shrill. 

"  It's  a  joke,  dearest,  it's  a  joke !  Don't  you  see  it's  a 
joke?" 

Catherine  allowed  her  trembling  body  to  rest  for  a  mo 
ment  in  the  compelling  arms.  When  she  withdrew  herself, 
she  kept  on  her  way  to  the  door. 

"  I  am  going  to  order  a  carriage,"  she  said,  "  and  drive 
down  to  their  shooting-box.  I  must  see  my  husband." 

Celia  was  with  her  again. 

"  Let  us  go  with  you,  dearest,"  she  entreated,  in  her  pret 
tiest  manner,  —  coaxing  in  it,  a  child's  wayward  assumption 
that  it  must  be  indulged.  "  We  want  to  see  what  they  are 
doing  when  they  go  off  to  play  and  pretend  it  's  work.  We 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       in 

want  to  see  this  old  Mr.  Lovell  that  has  the  fortune  and  hid 
it  in  a  hole." 

"It's  true,  Celia,"  said  Catherine  quickly,  thrown  mo 
mentarily  off  the  track,  "  he  had  a  fortune.  Your  father  said 
so.  Yes,  you  may  go.  Only  one  of  you  '11  have  to  order  a 
carriage.  Lyddy  would  n't  do  it  if  I  should  ask  her." 

She  hurried  upstairs,  her  eager  mind,  on  this  whiffof  sug 
gestion,  wafted  to  another  scene.  But  at  the  stairhead  she 
paused,  her  hand  on  the  rail.  "  It  was  n't  a  joke,"  she  said 
aloud  to  herself,  and  then  went  on  to  her  room  to  powder 
her  tear-stained  face  and  make  ready  for  the  drive. 

Celia  went  back  into  the  room  where  her  sister  stood  in 
the  same  place,  unmoved.  But  Bess  had  raised  her  eyes,  and 
now  she  met  her  sister's  in  a  gaze  where  some  hurt  thing 
seemed  to  be  struggling  to  keep  from  expressing  itself,  and 
yet  imploring  voicelessly  never  to  let  it  be  hurt  any  more. 

"  I  will  not  —  "  she  said,  and  her  voice  failed  her  and 
she  began  over.  "  I  will  never  do  it  again.  Not  even  for  you. 
Never  !  never!  " 

Celia  put  quick  arms  about  her,  not  winningly,  as  she  had 
encircled  Catherine,  but  fiercely,  as  if  love  and  shame  con 
strained  her,  and  the  two  stood  so  clasped,  a  moment,  trem 
bling. 

"  What  won't  you  do  ? "  Celia  asked,  in  a  whisper,  when  she 
had  recovered  courage  for  it. 

"  Lie  for  you,"  Bess  answered  harshly.  "  Lie  for  either 
of  us." 

Celia  recovered  herself  first,  suddenly  and  with  violence, 
as  one  throws  and  masters  the  plunging  animal,  emotion. 

"  I  must  go  and  order  a  carriage."  She  announced  it  with 
a  dignified  quiet.  "  Get  your  hat  and  come." 


IX 

THE  drive  to  Headland  Point  was  bordered  by 
marshes  where  miracles  happened  so  capriciously 
fast  that  even  the  constant  eye  could  never  keep 
comprehensive  note  of  them.  There  were  wildly  beautiful 
curves  of  marsh  islands  and  lagoons  where  water  ran  in,  al 
ways  unexpectedly,  even  if  you  knew  the  tide,  painted  in  a 
deeper  tone  of  that  blue  the  skyey  artists  know  the  secret 
of.  Sometimes  little  white  sailboats  went  slipping  and  dip 
ping  about  these  inland  channels,  playing  jokes  in  naviga 
tion,  and  again  one  would  be  left  by  the  tide,  and  seem,  at 
a  distance,  to  be  taking  an  outing  on  dry  land. 

Celia  had  procured  an  ancient  carryall  and  a  shirt-sleeved 
boy  to  drive.  Bess  had  proffered  her  own  services  at  the 
reins,  but  Catherine  forbade.  It  was  in  Mrs.  Winterbourne's 
mind  that  if  her  husband  made  them  welcome  she  might 
propose  their  all  spending  the  night  in  the  trig  little  place 
her  fancy  had  conjured  up  as  the  shooting-box  a  man  of 
Hunter's  mechanical  aptitudes  would  be  sure  to  have  built 
for  himself.  To  that  end  she  had  taken  a  toilet-bag  with  her, 
packed  for  the  girls'  necessities  also,  though  they  were  not 
yet  admitted  to  her  hopes.  This  was  one  of  the  sudden  warm 
days  of  spring,  when  summer  comes  with  a  leap  and  sets 
things  to  moving  madly.  The  wave  of  it  touched  them  as  they 
drove,  and  wakened  them  in  different  measures.  Catherine 
drew  the  sigh  that  comes  after  tears,  and  roused  with  it  to  a 
sense  of  something  peacefully  new  outside  her.  What  was 
this  world  she  looked  at,  this  still  reality  she-had  almost  for 
gotten  in  the  little  intricate  game  of  "  getting  on  "  ?  She  had 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       113 

a  delicate  sense  of  beauty,  and  it  had  tumultuously  responded 
to  old-world  marvels  in  her  foreign  travelling.  She  accorded 
that  response  as  its  reasonable  due  to  the  romance  of  place, 
its  poetry  collated  for  her  by  the  consensus  of  minds.  But 
here  under  the  light  of  home  was  the  gentle  stretch  where 
man  had  not  reared  marvels  or  destroyed  them,  —  plain, 
kind  New  England,  —  and  the  sight  of  it  roused  in  her  a 
soothed  longing  as  in  the  child  who  runs  back  to  be  com 
forted  and  finds  his  mother  there.  She  forgot  her  trouble 
some  charges,  and  let  her  eyes  rest  on  the  marsh  where  the 
tide  was  flooding,  and  only  when  Bess  made  a  low  exclamation 
did  she  look  at  her. 

The  girl  had  taken  off  her  hat,  and  the  short  ends  of  her 
brown  hair  were  curling  up  in  a  new  life  with  the  moisture 
and  the  heat.  Her  brown  cheeks  had  the  tint  of  red  wine, 
and  she  was  leaning  forward,  hands  in  her  lap,  looking  from 
side  to  side.  "  The  sea !  "  she  murmured,  plainly  to  herself. 
"The  sea!" 

Celia,  sitting  straight  and  buoyantly  over  the  rocking  of 
the  carryall,  did  not  seem  to  hear  her.  The  stormy  look  had 
not  left  her  face.  Her  eyes  brooded  gloomily  and  yet  with 
a  fire  of  hope  in  them,  on  thoughts  they  determinedly  did 
not  disclose.  Catherine  spoke, — 

"  No,  child,  it's  not  the  sea." 

Her  voice,  kind  as  it  always  had  been,  took  on  a  sympa 
thetic  warmth,  and  Bess  started  at  it. 

"I  thought  it  was  the  sea." 

"  It 's  the  tide,  not  the  full  sea.  Did  n't  you  ever  see 
the  ocean  ?  " 

Bess  shook  her  head.  There  was  an  eloquent  beating  in 
her  throat.  It  seemed  to  say  if  idle  waterways,  messengers 
of  the  deep,  were  such,  what  could  she  do  when  the  full 
swing  of  waves  should  smite  her  ? 


n4      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  We  shall  have  to  inquire,''  said  Catherine  at  length,  when 
their  charmed  progress  had  gone  on  leisurely. 

The  boy  in  shirt-sleeves  answered  with  some  scorn  of 
detail. 

"I  know  where  it  is." 

"  Mr.  Hunter's  shooting-box  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  guess." 

They  turned  here  to  the  north,  and  took  the  tongue  of 
land  with  inland  waters  on  one  side  and  the  sea  on  the  other, 
while  the  sound  of  waves  came  murmurously.  Bess  leaned 
out  of  the  carriage  more  and  more,  as  if  to  meet  the  wonder. 
When  they  had  passed  a  bluff  it  was  ready  for  her,  the  great 
blue  crawling,  destructive,  girdling  snake  of  the  world.  In 
stantly  she  was  out  over  the  wheel,  and  while  she  ran  the 
carryall  drew  up  farther  on  before  the  old  gray  shingled 
structure  that  was  Hunter's  refuge  when  he  ran  away  from 
town.  On  the  end  veranda  stood  a  big  figure  —  as  they 
approached,  it  seemed  colossal  —  Winterbourne,  hands  in 
his  pockets,  looking  out  to  sea,  and  at  first  taking  no  more 
notice  of  them  than  of  any  other  insignificant  detail.  But  he 
was  aware  of  them,  for  he  laid  his  pipe  on  the  window-ledge 
and  came  down  the  step. 

"  Let  her  go,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  a  gesture  indicating  Bess. 
There  was  tenderness  in  his  voice  and  in  his  eyes.  "She's 
the  natural  woman.  She  '11  love  the  sea  and  go  crazy  about 
it  down  there  by  herself." 

"  Lilian  ? "  asked  his  wife,  stepping  out  prettily  and  feel 
ing  very  glad  to  see  him.  "Yes,  we  '11  let  her  go.  Have  we 
surprised  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Winterbourne,  with  the  unmoved  patience  his 
voice  bore  for  her.  "  Come  and  sit  on  the  piazza.  He  need  n't 
take  the  horse  out  —  you  '11  want  to  be  getting  back  before 
dark." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      115 

Catherine  remembered  the  bag  under  the  seat  and  thought 
she  would  not  mention  it.  As  she  looked  at  the  place  it  be 
came  at  once  evident  to  her  that  it  was  not  for  exquisite  ways, 
and  she  was  reconciled. 

"  Celia,  go  down  to  her,"  said  Winterbourne.  His  eyes 
were  soft  with  a  knowledge  of  what  the  new  daughter  was 
feeling.  "  Go  down  to  your  sister.  Take  her  along  the  beach. 
Tell  her  there  's  nothing  between  her  and  Spain,  and  she  can 
make  the  most  of  it." 

Celia  set  off  at  a  light  run,  and  Winterbourne  returned  to 
his  wife. 

"  The  other  fellows  have  gone  out  fishing,"  he  explained. 

"Mr.  Lovell  is  here?" 

Winterbourne  stared  at  her  a  moment,  because  he  had  no 
idea  why  she  should  show  the  extra  kindness  of  remember 
ing  Lovell.  But  after  he  had  explained  again  that  Lovell  was 
out  fishing,  he  settled  himself  to  entertainment  of  her,  a  task 
for  which  he  felt  incompetent,  if  he  was  to  do  it  according 
to  her  ideals. 

Celia  met  her  sister  face  to  face  and  stopped  amazed  at  the 
glow  of  her,  the  eyes  that  streamed  a  flood  of  pleasure,  the 
crimson  cheeks,  even  the  flying  tendrils  of  her  hair,  crisping 
every  instant.  Bess  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed,  for  no 
reason  except,  it  seemed,  to  open  her  mouth  wide  and  drink 
into  it  more  of  the  salt  wash  of  air.  Her  fervor,  the  bacchante 
joy  and  abandon  of  her,  passed  into  Celia's  veins,  and  she,  too, 
laughed  for  nothing.  The  silence  and  the  waves  and  the  wind 
had  mad  hold  of  them,  and  all  the  things  they  had  learned 
about  the  desirableness  of  speaking  and  walking  as  others  do, 
passed  away  from  them  and  left  them  savage. 

"  Come,"  Celia  bade  her,  "  walk  along  the  beach." 

They  took  hands  and  hurried,  their  faces  toward  the  crin 
kling  water.  To  Celia,  who  had  crossed  it  and  to  whom  it  was 


u6      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY' 

a  necessary  adjunct  to  life  on  a  steamer's  deck,  it  suddenly 
became  the  colossal  marvel  her  sister  found  it.  She  wanted 
to  break  the  bonds  of  her  silence,  —  the  silence  she  had  lived 
in  ever  since  her  childhood  in  her  hospitable  home,  —  and 
call  out  to  it,  inarticulate,  even  uncouth  complainings  like  its 
own.  It  would  not  understand.  Nothing  understood,  but  she 
could  at  least  have  a  voice  and  not  an  inharmonious  one,  in 
the  natural  dissonance  of  life.  Bess  was  hurrying  more  and 
more. 

"Stop  !"  she  said,  and  with  the  word  halted  and  plumped 
herself  down  on  the  beach  in  the  fashion  of  children  who  play 
in  the  sand.  She  untied  the  ribbons  of  her  correct  shoes,  pulled 
offher  stockings,  rolled  them  into  a  neat  wad,  and  stuck  them 
in  the  shoes.  These  shoes  and  stockings  she  threw  with  ac 
curacy  inland,  where  they  landed  in  a  hollow  underneath  a 
tussock.  Then  she  stood  up,  kilted  her  short  skirt  higher, 
and  was  free. 

Celia  looked  on  for  an  instant  and  thought  of  Catherine. 
But  the  little  gray  house  was  well  behind  them,  and  she,  too, 
fell  upon  the  sand,  took  off  her  shoes  and  stockings  and 
hurled  them  into  the  tussock.  Upon  that,  she  rose  and  laid 
hand  upon  her  sister's  wrist,  and  they  ran,  their  white  feet 
flashing,  sometimes  on  wet  sand,  with  little  wild  excursions  into 
the  water,  and  sometimes  on  the  drier  stretch.  The  Point  runs 
out  into  a  miracle  of  water,  the  harbor  still  on  one  side,  and 
farther,  toward  the  setting  sun,  brown  roofs  and  the  spires  of 
town.  When  the  two  had  come  to  the  narrowing  tongue  of 
land,  their  spirits  bade  them  continue  and  jump  off  into  the 
abyss  of  water,  do  anything  but  return.  There  they  stood 
and  looked  at  each  other,  hot,  with  the  blood  in  their  cheeks, 
and  then  took  hands  and  danced. 

Celia  danced  beautifully.  She  had  been  one  of  a  club  of 
unprofessional  girls  of  worshipful  high  degree  who  gave 


JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      117 

entertainments  for  the  benefit  of  the  poor  and  the  freeing 
of  their  own  fetters,  and  she  could  foot  it  deftly  ;  but  Bess 
delivered  herself  over  to  an  untrained  abandon  the  nymphs 
would  have  understood  and  copied.  All  outdoors  entered 
into  her  and  made  her  drunk.  Her  hair  fell  about  her  and 
she  helped  it  with  a  hairpin  snatched  out  here  and  there. 
Round  and  round  they  flew,  and  there  the  three  fishermen 
who  had  sent  the  boat  on  to  an  inner  landing,  by  old  Giles, 
and  were  walking  to  stretch  their  legs,  saw  them  and  stood 
amazed. 

Tim,  no  fisherman,  a  picture  of  lank  uselessness,  shaded 
by  his  gray  felt  hat,  understood  first,  and  with  a  glorious 
yell  was  upon  them,  extending  hands  that  begged  to  be 
taken  into  the  ring.  Bess  looked  round  and  saw  him,  mod 
erated  her  transports  by  a  shade,  and  yet  accepted  him.  It 
seemed  to  her  and  to  Celia,  under  the  magic  of  the  moment, 
the  expected  thing  for  natural  man  to  do.  With  the  low  sun 
in  their  eyes  and  the  west  burning,  the  sea  crawling  away 
from  them  and  then  advancing,  a  spell  came  upon  them,  and 
on  Lovell  next.  When  he  thought  of  it  that  night  with  a 
burning  face,  he  wondered  how  it  could  have  been  that  he 
seized  Hunter  by  the  arm  and  pulled  him  forward,  that  Tim, 
with  one  of  his  uncanny  laughs,  had  broken  the  ring  to  let 
them  in,  and  that  they  had  all  danced  round  three  times  on 
the  wet  sands,  and  then  had  stopped  and  dizzily  regarded 
one  another. 

Tim,  in  his  high  voice,  gave  an  impish  hoot,  and  Dwight 
Hunter  stood  straight,  like  a  young  savage,  refraining  from 
sight  of  Bess,  who,  he  knew,  was  twisting  up  her  hair. 
Lovell  stood  silently,  his  breath  coming  fast,  and  looked 
with  a  serious  adoration  at  the  nymphs  who  had  enslaved 
him  by  dragging  him  back  with  their  puissant  soft  hands 
to  Greece,  to  Olympus  where  the  unseen  are  footing  it  to 


n8      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

soundless  measures  he  only  remembered  usually  in  the 
pages  of  a  book. 

But  they  were  walking  on  together,  and  Celia,  recalled  to 
the  customs  of  life,  was  talking  gayly.  Tim  answered  her,  in 
a  swift  interchange,  and  Lovell,  on  the  other  side  of  Celia, 
looked  at  the  curving  line  of  her  ear  with  the  cloudy  hair 
behind  it,  and  felt  within  him  the  madness  of  nature-wor 
ship.  Once  she  turned  to  him,  her  curved  lips  parted  for  a 
word,  and  before  he  knew  what  he  was  saying  he  had  stam 
mered  out  his  foolish  subterfuge  to  women, —  "Excuse me. 
I  'm  a  little  deaf,"  and  she  had  smiled  divinely  and  turned 
away  again. 

Bess  and  Hunter  walked  behind  them  with  sedate  steps, 
a  swinging  stride  where  they  accorded,  and  did  not  speak. 
Bess  had  no  perception  of  him  except  as  one  who,  like  her, 
had  seen  the  ocean,  and  was  absorbed  in  its  large  presence. 
The  world  and  the  sense  of  it  came  upon  them  all  when 
they  neared  the  spot  where  two  pairs  of  beautiful  pumps  lay 
beneath  a  tussock.  Celia  cringed  a  little  in  her  walk.  Her 
back,  as  Hunter's  eyes  dwelt  upon  it,  got  demure  motions 
as  of  a  maiden  escaping  notice.  Presently  she  stopped,  and 
Bess,  coming  to  her  side,  stood  with  her. 

"  Will  you  go  ?  "  Celia  asked  the  men,  with  much  dignity. 
"We  left  our  shoes  here.  Please  don't  wait  for  us." 

The  three  went  on  without  a  word,  though  Tim  croaked 
and  sang  and  tossed  his  hat  into  the  air,  never  by  any  chance 
catching  it,  but  once  setting  his  foot  on  it  in  acrobatic  frenzy. 
Bess  and  Celia,  by  the  tussock,  put  on  their  shoes  and  stock 
ings  gravely  and  seemed,  in  the  doing,  to  assume  another 
guise.  They  sat  a  moment  after  their  feet  were  clad,  giving 
little  touches  to  their  hair,  settling  a  collar  and  brushing  the 
sand  from  skirts.  Celia  spoke  first:  — 

"She'd  be  ashamed  of  us." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      119 

In  their  brief  references  to  Catherine,  when  they  were 
alone,  she  was  never  known  by  her  name  or  the  scrupulously 
affectionate  title  Celia  gave  her  in  direct  address.  It  was  an 
unspoken  point  of  honor  with  them  not  to  discuss  her,  not 
to  exchange  opinions  about  what  she  did  or  required  of 
them  to  do;  but  she  was  always  known  as  "she." 

"  Why  ? "  Bess  inquired,  not  gainsayingly  but  as  if  the 
question  had  been  bred  out  of  Celia's  statement. 

"  She  'd  think  it  was  because  we  are  adopted." 

They  got  up  then  and  walked  along,  not  hand  in  hand 
but  quickly,  making  a  business  of  going,  and  when  they 
were  nearing  the  house,  Bess  said  impulsively,  as  if  in  de 
fence  of  Catherine,  — 

"  She  never  did  say  it." 

"  No.  She  never  said  it,  but  she  thinks  it." 

Again  they  kept  on  in  silence,  but  when  they  had  come 
to  the  little  veranda  where  the  sound  of  voices  mingled, 
Bess  turned  to  her  sister,  some  new  assertion  in  her  manner, 
not  pride,  not  obstinacy,  but  as  if  the  sea  had  lent  her 
strength. 

"  But,"  she  said,  "  I  am  not  adopted." 

Then  they  mounted  the  steps,  Celia  hesitating  a  pace  with 
a  question  in  her  eyes,  as  if  that  issue  might  be  carried  further, 
and  came  upon  Catherine  holding  a  court  of  four  deferential 
men.  When  she  expected  public  tribute,  Winterbourne's 
patience  never  failed  him.  He  had  put  her  in  the  weather- 
beaten  arm-chair,  and  with  a  rough  tenderness  brought  her 
a  shawl.  She  looked  young  and  pretty,  in  an  appealing  way, 
the  soft  rose  of  the  wind  in  her  cheeks  and  her  eager  eyes 
interrogating  the  place.  Tim  was  before  her,  hat  in  hand, 
the  bright  hair  all  over  his  forehead,  while  he  grew  shriller 
and  more  voluble  in  telling  her  how  they  had  met  two 
nymphs  on  the  beach  and  danced  with  them.  Hunter,  a 


120      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

rough  hand  on  his  shoulder,  was  warning  him  back  into  a 
state  of  repression,  and  at  that  moment  the  nymphs  ap 
peared.  Catherine,  seeing  them  as  they  came  up  the  steps 
sedately,  their  faces  flying  the  red  of  rebellion,  understood 
at  once. 

"Celia!"  she  said. 

Celia  came  forward  to  her  with  a  swift,  pretty  motion  of 
deprecating  grace. 

"  She  had  n't  seen  the  ocean/'  she  said  unaffectedly,  "  Bess 
hadn't.  It  set  her  crazy,  set  me  crazy  too  —  because  she 
was.  We  danced." 

Winterbourne  laughed  out  in  robust  delight. 

"That's  the  way  it  ought  to  be,"  he  cried.  "We  ought 
to  have  the  spirit  of  men  and  women  left  in  our  legs.  When 
we  gain  a  victory  over  the  tariff  or  the  browntail  moths  or 
the  man  that  puts  up  broadsides  in  the  marshes,  we  ought 
to  take  hands  and  dance  in  the  market-place.  God  bless  you, 
my  dear,"  he  said  to  Bess,  with  a  real  affection  and  a  wicked 
impulse  to  plague  his  wife.  "You  have  brought  back  to  us 
the  manners  of  an  older  and  a  nobler  time." 

Bess,  pursued  by  the  mild  reproach  in  Catherine's  eyes, 
slunk  back  against  the  veranda-rail  and  looked  as  dull  as  shy 
ness  could  make  her.  Yet  there  were  fugitive  gleams  in  her 
eyes,  straying  in  quick  glances  round  the  corner  of  the  house 
to  the  crinkling  sea.  Hunter  had  disappeared  for  a  moment, 
and  now  he  came  back,  in  some  diffidence  of  his  own,  to  say, — 

"  Mrs.  Winterbourne,  won't  you  stay  to  supper  ?  There  's 
fish.  I  'm  going  to  fry  it." 

Bess  started  forward  with  her  instant  impulse  toward  serv 
ice,  and  Catherine  made  a  little  prohibitory  motion  toward 
her.  Perhaps  Catherine,  having  the  bare  feet  in  mind,  saw 
the  danger  in  launching  her  brood  upon  an  unknown  sea  of 
camping. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      121 

"You  are  awfully  kind,"  she  said,  "but  I  think  we  must 
go  back.  The  road  was  lovely  in  the  afternoon  light,  but  I  'd 
rather  not  trust  myself  to  our  driver  after  dark.  Mr.  Lovell, 
I  am  so  glad  to  meet  you.  Your  little  book  is  on  my  table. 
I  have  been  trying  to  find  the  opportunity  of  telling  you  how 
much  I  like  it." 

Lovell  crimsoned  and  looked  foolish.  It  was  easy  to  es 
cape  his  townswomen  by  fleeing  to  the  seclusion  of  his  chosen 
failing.  Here  with  these  noble  dames,  when  he  should  have 
been  most  a  gentleman,  he  called  himself  a  clown  hoppled 
by  that  clumsy  shift.  Winterbourne  saw  him  struggling  and 
came  nobly  in. 

"  Lovell 's  deaf  as  a  post,"  he  brutally  said,  "  posts,  had 
docks,  adders — none  so  deaf  as  Jim.  Let  his  little  book 
alone.  Don't  praise  him  for  it.  He  'd  rather  be  hanged." 

But  Catherine  had  risen,  and  now  she  advanced  to  Loveli, 
and  offered  him  her  hand. 

"  Come  to  see  me,"  she  said  graciously.  "  I  'm  going  to 
give  a  little  tea,  but  don't  wait  for  that.  Come  any  afternoon, 
any  evening,  if  it 's  easier  for  you.  Mr.  Hunter,  we  '11  have 
our  carriage,  please." 

While  Hunter  went  to  summon  the  boy,  who  had  hitched 
to  a  spar  he  remembered,  and  now  sat,  chewing  the  cud  of 
atrophy,  in  the  carriage,  Catherine  professed  sudden  interest 
in  the  big  bare  living-room  and  bade  Tim  show  it  to  her. 
He  went  with  a  voluble  willingness,  measured  perhaps  by 
his  desire  to  devote  every  instant  to  the  silent  girls  by  the 
rail.  Winterbourne  sauntered  down  the  steps  after  Dwight 
and  stood,  hands  in  his  pockets,  forgetting  them  all  and  wait 
ing  for  the  carriage  to  come  up,  when  his  duty  of  assistant 
host  would  end.  Celia  had  flashed  three  glances  at  Lovell, 
standing  there,  handsome,  manly,  yet  somehow  out  of  the 
picture,  —  one  when  Catherine's  gentle  onslaught  had  con- 


122      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

fused  him,  one  when  Winterbourne  had  defended  him  to  his 
further  shame,  and  one  of  her  own,  full  of  daring  impulse. 
She  put  her  hand  in  her  sister's  and  drew  her  away  toward 
the  steps  where  Winterbourne  awaited  them  —  this  with  a 
little  farewell  nod  for  Lovell,  a  small,  sweet  smile.  She  spoke 
to  Bess,  in  a  quick  half  whisper,  penetrating  as  a  cry :  — 

"  Did  you  look  at  him?  He  looks  just  like  a  poet." 

Bess  started  and  gave  her  hand  a  warning  pressure. 

"He  does  n't  hear  us/'  said  Celia,  with  composure.  "  Did  n't 
you  know  they  said  so?  But  he  looks  like  a  poet.  I  adore 
his  looks.  I  could  adore  him,  too." 

Without  another  look  at  Lovell,  frozen  to  the  spot,  straight 
ened  into  a  man  challenged  by  woman's  innocent  homage, 
she  passed  down  the  steps  with  Catherine,  and  in  a  moment 
they  were  in  the  carryall  and  driving  away.  Celia,  her  cheeks 
flushed,  looking  flamingly  handsome,  sat  straight,  gazing  at 
the  point  between  the  horse's  ears  until  Bess,  as  if  it  were 
impossible  to  help  it,  leaned  forward  and  asked  her  irrepress- 
ibly,- 

"  Did  you  mean  that? " 

Celia  glanced  back  with  a  widening  of  the  eyes  and  lifted 
brows,  a  look  of  warning  that  seemed  to  include  Catherine 
and  the  silent  boy. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  pronounced  fervor.  "  I  meant  it." 

"  Meant  what?  "  Catherine  asked,  rousing  herself  from  her 
muse  over  her  husband  as  she  had  just  seen  him,  calm,  con 
tented  with  the  bare  facts  of  living,  enough  air  to  breathe, 
a  sight  of  the  sea,  and  the  chance  to  use  his  hands.  He  was 
incomprehensible  to  her  in  the  simplicity  of  his  needs.  In 
the  way  of  women  she  wondered,  as  she  had  a  thousand  times, 
whether  she  could  not  change  him,  and  then,  since  that  had 
been  the  rock  where  her  barque  had  split  and  she  saw  its  black 
hulk  rising  again  from  the  waters,  whether  she  could  not 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S  FAMILY      123 

change  herself.  She  was  ready  to  be  loved  again,  now  in  the 
eager  fulness  of  her  prime.  If  he  saw  her  doing  humble  tasks 
like  his  own,  would  he  love  her?  "  Mean  what  ?"  she  roused 
herself  to  ask  again. 

Celia  answered  without  apparent  premeditation. 

"  I  said  I  should  like  to  live  forever  in  a  place  like  that." 

So  it  was  striking  them  all,  Catherine  thought,  the  wind 
of  longing  for  a  life  more  free.  But  Bess,  at  her  sister's  an 
swer,  leaned  back  in  her  seat,  and  closed  her  eyes.  She  looked 
suddenly  dull  and  pale. 

"  Tired  ?  "  asked  Catherine  kindly. 

«  No,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  believe  I  'm  tired." 


X 

THEY  drove  quietly  toward  the  west  and  through  the 
lower  part  of  the  little  town,  their  magic  city  as  they 
saw  it  from  the  Point.  Catherine  was  still  musing, 
her  mind  racing  back  and  forward,  comparing  the  present  with 
the  past,  trying  to  tint  the  one  with  colors  matched  to  those 
of  old,  Celia  intent  upon  her  map  of  life  as  it  might  be  if 
unknown  lands  were  charted,  and  Bess  shut  up  again  in  her 
patience-breeding  cell.  So  it  was  until  they  came  to  the  new 
club-house  built  within  the  year,  and  here  a  mob  of  boys 
blocked  progress,  while  a  woman  on  the  steps  addressed 
them.  Catherine  awoke  out  of  her  muse. 

"That,"  said  she,  "is  Anna  Clayton  Ramsay.  Boy,  wait 
a  minute.  She's  speaking,  isn't  she?  That's  very  inter 
esting." 

Mrs.  Ramsay  was  explaining  that  a  specified  reverend 
gentleman  was  ill  and  would  consequently  be  unable  to  give 
his  lecture  on  the  House-Fly,  and  the  boys,  chiefly  of  the 
unprosperous  and  care-free  moiety,  having  accepted  that 
statement  with  a  blighting  lack  of  interest,  were  now  occu 
pied,  not  with  Mrs.  Ramsay's  announcement  for  the  next 
week,  but  in  general  combat,  whackings  of  backs  and  cap- 
pilfering,  accompanied  by  yells  of  triumph  as  one  or  an 
other  onslaught  came  pat.  Mrs.  Ramsay  was  at  a  discount, 
marked  down  very  low  indeed.  It  was  disconcerting.  When 
she  addressed  the  world  she  was  accustomed  to  see  admiring 
assemblages  of  her  peers,  women  prepared  to  respect  her 
subject  and  give  it  a  deserved  applause.  Here  she  was  no 
where.  She  could  neither  amuse,  according  to  a  boy's  con- 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       125 

ception,  nor  had  she  authority  to  admonish.  The  youthful 
band  for  whom  the  club-house  had  been  built,  to  the  end 
of  entertainment  and  better  morals,  learned  that  there  would 
be  "nothing  doing"  that  night,  and  were  expending  uncon- 
sumed  energy  on  one  another.  Catherine  called  to  the  lady, 
all  unheeded  in  her  kindly  zeal, — 

"  Mrs.  Ramsay,  here  is  a  seat  for  you.  Drive  with  us, 
won't  you?  " 

Mrs.  Ramsay  managed  her  difficult  exit  through  the  tur 
moil,  and,  finding  the  step,  lifted  a  substantial  foot  to  it. 
Bess,  in  a  flash,  was  out  on  the  other  side,  after  her  little 
apologetic  petition  to  Catherine  :  — 

"  I  'd  like  to  walk.  Please  let  me.  Celia,  you  come,  too." 

With  a  charming  word  to  Mrs.  Ramsay,  Celia  followed 
her.  The  carryall  went  slowly  on,  and  Bess  stood  watching 
its  back  until,  out  of  the  small  crowd,  the  boy  whipped  up 
and  it  bobbed  away  at  a  brisker  pace.  Then  she  turned, 
seemed  to  put  her  head  down  and  cut  the  throng,  pulling 
Celia  after  her,  until  she  found  herself  at  the  foot  of  the 
steps.  There  she  paused  an  instant  for  a  breath,  ran  up  the 
steps  and  stood  at  the  highest  vantage.  Celia,  dazed,  was 
still  beside  her.  Bess  opened  her  lips  and  gave  a  cry,  a 
beautiful  singing  cry,  as  Brunhild  might  have  called  in  her 
playground  of  the  air.  The  boys  stopped  singing ;  they 
were  listening.  She  gave  another.  They  turned  to  her. 
Now  while  they  faced  her,  she  had  her  audience. 

"  Boys/'  she  said,  "  I  'm  going  to  sing  to  you." 

"  Bully  for  you  !  "  answered  a  ringleader. 

There  were  two  or  three  dissenting  groans.  Some  of 
them  had  not  been  clever  enough  to  read  the  promise  in 
the  opening  cry. 

"  Can  we  get  into  the  hall  ?  "  asked  Bess. 

No.  There  were  groans  of  "  no."   Ma'am  Ramsay  had  car- 


126      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

ried  off  the  key,  they  volunteered.  It  was  evidently  an  un 
popular  proceeding. 

"  I  '11  sing  here,"  said  Bess. 

She  sang  the  "  Irish  Washerwoman "  and  took  up  her 
skirts  and  danced  to  it.  The  boys  also  danced.  They 
begged  with  catcalls  and  yells  and  almost  with  tears  for 
"  Money  Musk  "  and  "  Fisher's  Hornpipe,"  but  she  de 
nied  them  and  led  them  into  the  twilight  land  of  ballads. 
They  went  to  war  with  the  Minstrel  Boy  and  understood 
perfectly  all  about  it.  Celia,  too,  fell  heir  to  the  wild  charm 
of  it,  and  found  she  had  an  ache  in  her  throat  and  smarting 
eyes.  Bess  sang  the  "  Wearing  of  the  Green  "  then,  and 
young  Erin  joined  her,  and,  in  some  danger  of  drowning 
her  out,  was  set  upon  by  the  majority  and  choked  into  ab 
negation.  Celia  stood  in  the  background  and  wondered. 
She  was  conscious  that  here  was  power,  a  triumph  of  a  sort, 
and  her  own  blood  responded,  yet  with  a  bitterness  of  re 
volt  that  this  was  not  a  victory  to  be  scored.  There  was  an 
hour  of  this  perhaps,  and  then  the  singer  ceased. 

"That's  all,  boys,"  said  Bess.  "Good-night." 

It  was  not  all,  they  assured  her  in  their  own  language. 
They  could  not  have  it  so.  No  more  flattering  meed  ever 
came  from  a  house  that  refuses  to  go  home,  and  stamps  its 
greedy  wonder.  She  sang  them  another  and  yet  another. 

"  Boys,"  she  said  then,  "  I  Ve  got  to  go.  I  have  n't  had 
my  supper.  I  'm  as  hungry  as  a  shark." 

That  they  acquiesced  in. 

"  Will  yer  come  again  ?  "  a  shrill  voice  asked  her. 

Yes,  she  would  come  again.  Then  they  cheered  her,  and 
through  the  lane  they  made,  she  and  Celia  took  their  way 
to  the  narrow  sidewalk,  and  began  a  sharp  clip  for  home. 
But  not  alone.  Behind  them  was  their  adoring  horde,  tramp 
ing  in  booted  feet,  pattering  on  bare  soles,  but  silent  now, 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       127 

a  guard  of  honor.  Once  a  rabble,  it  was  an  army.  It  fol 
lowed  to  Winterbourne's  gate.  Celia,  her  hand  on  the  door, 
waited.  Bess  turned  to  her  following. 

"Good-night,  boys,"  she  said.  "Thank  you.  Good 
night." 

"Same  to  you,"  returned  the  spokesman.  But  they 
waited.  She  knew  what  they  wanted,  and  she  sang  "Annie 
Laurie."  One  boy  of  an  admirable  voice,  used  to  the  star 
part  in  the  "Echo  Song"  at  school,  joined  her,  but  a  critic 
fell  upon  him  and  he  ended,  gurgling. 

"Good-night,"  said  Bess,  and  followed  Celia  in. 

Catherine,  crossing  the  hall,  met  them.  "Didn't  I  hear 
singing  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,  dear,"  Celia  answered.  "  Or  it  was  some  one  going 
by.  Did  your  drive  tire  you  ?  " 

That  night  Bess  went  to  her  room  early  and  with  a  swift 
directness  made  ready  for  bed.  She  was  not  likely  to  do  much 
of  the  vague  wandering  that  makes  a  woman's  chamber  a 
bower  for  musing,  a  halting-place  for  sitting,  chin  in  hand, 
to  ponder  over  the  marvels  of  the  garden  called  youth  that 
opens  without  a  break  into  the  glade  of  love  —  perhaps  heart 
break,  perhaps  death.  This  girl's  muscles  were  too  tired  to 
allow  her  blissful  torpors.  She  would  have  sunk  through  them 
into  sleep.  Her  life  had  trained  her  to  run  from  one  task  to 
another  and  to  keep  her  mind  in  an  obedient  concentration 
on  what  might  be  required  of  her.  When  she  went  about  her 
chamber,  it  was  indeed  with  a  serious  face,  as  if  she  had  grave 
topics  to  consider,  as  if,  in  the  way  of  those  who  live  much 
alone,  her  best  confidant  was  herself.  But  always  her  steps 
were  for  a  purpose,  not  the  unconsidered  flights  of  the  woman 
who  begins  to  braid  her  hair  and  remembers  something  more 
interesting;  who  stops  to  read  a  letter  or  look  out  a  quota 
tion  from  a  book.  Bess  was  a  soldier  always  in  marching 


128      JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

order,  and  when  she  had  put  her  head  down  on  her  pillow,  it 
was  to  close  her  eyes  at  once  and  brush  off  the  cobwebs  woven 
by  the  day. 

Before  she  was  asleep  there  was  a  hand  at  her  door,  and 
Celia  in  her  nightgown  came  softly  in.  Bess  sat  up  instantly 
and  asked  if  anything  was  the  matter,  but  Celia,  without  an 
swering,  slipped  into  bed  beside  her  and  hugged  her  tight. 
Bess  accepted  her  timidly.  She  was  a  warm,  sweet  creature 
who  did  not  yet  know  how  to  express  the  shy  inundations 
of  her  own  nature.  Celia  clung  to  her,  trembling,  and  seemed 
to  cry  a  little. 

"What  is  it?"  Bess  asked  her,  greatly  troubled.  "What 
is  it,  sister?" 

At  last  Celia  told  her. 

"You  are  not  happy,"  she  said.  "  We  Ve  taken  you  away 
from  what  you  like,  and  you  don't  like  this." 

Bess  stiffened  beside  her. 

"  No,"  she  answered  coldly,  "you  have  n't  taken  me  away 
from  what  I  liked.  There  was  nothing  I  liked  particularly." 

The  chilling  of  her  tone  was  distressing  to  Celia.  It  hurt 
her  vanity,  and  something  deeper  still  —  that  strong  devotion 
binding  her  to  her  sister  as  the  one  thing  she  had  of  her  own. 
She  was  really  crying  now,  shaking  not  more  with  the  inten 
sity  of  her  sobs  than  from  the  misery  of  seeing  the  heaven 
of  her  expectations  darken  day  by  day. 

"You  don't  care  about  me,  either,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
believe  you  care  at  all." 

Bess  gave  her  a  little  involuntary  shake,  and  then  caught  the 
slight  form  to  her  in  compunction. 

"  Of  course  I  care  aboutyou,"  she  said  indignantly.  "Are  n't 
we  sisters?  I  guess  I  should  care  about  my  own  sister, 
should  n't  I  ?  " 

But  Celia,  lying  trembling  in  her  arms,  felt  a  distress  she 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       129 

could  not  even  understand.  It  seemed  to  go  back  to  the  fact 
that  her  sister  did  not  really  speak  her  language.  She  felt 
with  humility  that  Bess  was  her  superior,  in  beauty,  in  her 
rich  gift,  and,  as  the  suffrages  of  the  world  seemed  to  denote, 
in  charm.  But  these  subtilities  of  the  inner  life  were  closed 
to  her.  There  was  a  language  Bess  did  not  merely  refrain  from 
using  :  she  had  not  learned  its  elements.  Celia  made  another 
trial. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  care  about  anything,  Lilian." 

Her  sister's  breast  lifted  in  one  long  sigh. 

"Don't  call  me  that  when  we  are  alone,"  she  said.  "Call 
me  Bess." 

"Don't  you  like  to  be  called  Lilian?" 

"  It's  not  my  name.  My  name  is  Lizzie  Hartwell.  I  'd 
like  well  enough  to  be  called  Elizabeth.  That  was  mother's 
name.  Or  I  'd  like  to  be  called  Bess." 

Celia  whispered  jealously  into  her  ear,  as  if  she  were  afraid 
even  the  world  of  night  might  overhear  it, — 

"  How  do  you  know  mother's  name  was  Elizabeth  ?" 

"  I  went  to  the  Poor  Farm  at  Barnardsville  and  found 
out." 

"  Why  did  you  go  there  ?  " 

"  Because  the  Callahans,  that  brought  me  up,  told  me  I 
came  from  the  Poor  Farm  in  Barnardsville.  They  took  me 
because  I  was  a  good  strong  child,  and  they  had  n't  any  of 
their  own." 

Celia  shuddered. 

"  You  cold  ? "  asked  Bess  kindly,  and  drew  a  blanket 
over  her. 

"  I  never  heard  of  the  Callahans,"  Celia  pursued,  as  if  in 
hatred  of  it  all. 

cc  No.  They  both  died  when  I  was  fourteen.  He  'd  made 
a  little  money  teaming  and  bought  him  a  house;  but  he 


130      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

took  to  drink  and  went  downhill,  and  when  he  died  there 
was  nothing  left.  And  then  his  wife  died,  and  I  went  to 
work  at  the  tavern." 

"  Were  they  —  "  Celia  found  herself  forced  to  this  ques 
tion,  but  she  was  afraid  of  it.  "  Were  they  good  to  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Bess  simply.  "  Real  good." 

"  Did  you  — "  Here  again  she  hesitated.  It  seemed  im 
possible  to  accept  a  bond  between  her  sister  and  a  teamster 
who  had  taken  to  drink.  "Were  you  fond  of  them  ?" 

Bess  considered. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  was,"  she  owned.  "  You  can't  tell 
about  children.  They  're  like  little  pigs  or  kittens.  They  '11 
go  where  the  trough  is,  or  where  they  find  the  warmest  lap. 
I  don't  believe  they  have  much  heart  for  old  folks  until 
they  Ve  had  a  few  hard  knocks  themselves  and  find  out  what 
it  is  to  —  " 

She  stopped  there,  apparently  because  no  words  offered 
themselves  to  clothe  her  strong  sense  of  the  gigantic  thing 
life  does  to  us  when  it  moulds  us  into  shape  to  move  about 
among  the  other  organisms  it  has  bred. 

Celia  had  more  questions  to  ask,  but  she  shrank  from 
them  and  put  her  fear  into  words. 

"I  wish  I  knew  what  you  found  out  about  —  mother;  but 
I  'm  almost  afraid  to  ask." 

Bess  replied  at  once  with  no  reproof  of  her,  but  a  direct 
and  simple  wonder. 

"  What  makes  you  afraid  of  finding  out  anything  about 
your  own  mother  ?  " 

Celia  was  conscious  of  a  warm  flood  of  affection  toward 
her  sister,  and  of  an  angry  partisanship  for  the  unknown 
others  of  her  own  blood,  but  she  was  also  aware  of  an  almost 
proven  certainty  that  Bess  was  not  what  could  be  called  a 
lady,  and  that,  almost  as  indubitably,  her  mother  also  was  not. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       131 

"  What  was  mother  ?  "  she  whispered. 

"  Why,  she  was  just  father's  wife,"  said  Bess,  in  a  clear 
tone  that  seemed  to  Celia  to  be  too  loud  in  the  still  chamber. 
"  Father  was  a  carpenter." 

"Oh!"  It  was  a  quick  little  cry,  as  if  Celia  had  been 
struck,  or  felt  the  sudden  indignant  pain  of  looking  on  at 
the  hurt  of  another.  "  Do  you  suppose,"  she  whispered,  in  a 
fierce  revulsion,  "she  knows  that?" 

"  Who  ? " 

"  Mamma." 

There  was  a  pause  before  the  word,  as  if  she  used  it  un 
willingly,  or  felt  the  disloyalty  of  borrowing  it  at  all  while 
they  were  dwelling  on  the  ties  of  blood.  But  to  Bess  all 
these  things  were  simpler. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  Maybe.  You'd  been  put  into 
a  minister's  family,  you  know.  The  Callahans  had  taken  me." 

"  And  you  went  to  find  out  about  it  all,"  said  Celia,  in 
wonder  and  with  a  pang  suffered  at  her  own  defection.  "  I 
never  once  thought  of  going." 

"  It  was  n't  to  find  out,"  said  Bess.  "  I  wanted  to  see 
mother's  grave  and  make  sure  'twas  taken  care  of." 

"  And  was  it  P  " 

"  Not  very  well.  There  was  an  old  man  that  cut  the  grass 
for  his  horse,  but  the  stones  were  tipping.  I  had  'em  fixed, 
and  set  out  a  Province  rose." 

Even  then  Celia  felt  a  little  pang  because  her  sister  used 
the  colloquial  pronunciation,  and  was  probably  ignorant  that 
France  had  a  Provence  as  rich  as  its  own  roses.  Bess  seemed 
to  have  been  born  yesterday,  so  far  as  the  inherited  common 
places  went. 

"  Father  and  she  were  there  together,"  Bess  continued 
dreamily.  "It  was  a  nice  spot.  The  clematis  came  over  the 
wall." 


i32      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  Did  you  find  out  anything  about  them  ?  " 

"Yes.  The  old  man's  wife  —  the  one  that  cut  the  grass 
—  showed  me  where  they  lived.  'T  was  a  nice  little  house 
with  a  piazza  and  jessamine  by  the  door.  She  had  a  picture 
of  father  —  a  tintype.  He  was  a  tall  man  with  a  big  nose  and 
kind  of  serious  eyes.  I  '11  show  it  to  you  to-morrow." 

"  Was  n't  there  any  of —  her  ?  " 

"  No.  The  old  lady  said  she  would  n't  have  any  taken. 
Her  health  had  begun  to  fail,  —  they  were  poor,  you  see, 
and  she  'd  worked  hard,  —  and  she  was  pretty  peaked." 

Celia  could  see  that  the  old  woman's  testimony  had  made 
deep  impression  on  her. 

"  Mother's  hair  was  c  black  as  a  crow/  I  thought  of  that 
the  minute  I  saw  you,  the  day  you  stooped  down  over  me 
when  I  was  washing  the  floor,  and  showed  me  your  little 
ring  like  mine.  I  thought  I  guessed  you  looked  like  mother 
and  maybe  I  was  more  like  father." 

"But  what  made  you  think  of  it  first?"  Celia  insisted, 
"  going  to  find  out  about  them  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  'd  wanted  to  ever  since  I  was  a  little  girl." 

"  But  you  did  n't  try  to  find  me  !  " 

"  I  was  going  to,"  Bess  told  her  seriously,  "  but  I  had  to 
find  them  first.  I  could  n't  do  either  till  I  'd  saved  up." 

"  How  long  did  it  take  you  to  save  ?  " 

"  A  good  many  years  —  seven,  I  guess.  I  never  Ve  earned 
much." 

They  were  silent  then,  Celia  thinking  and  Bess  growing 
sleepy.  Celia  felt  not  condemned  as  yet,  but  challenged  to 
be  told  why  she  had  not  been  saving  for  years  to  substanti 
ate  her  claim  to  her  father  and  mother.  But  there  was  an 
undercurrent  of  changeless  purpose  in  her,  and  her  sister's 
last  sentence  rang  in  her  ears  as  the  text  for  an  argument 
she  might  use. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       133 

"  You  have  n't  earned  much,"  she  repeated.  "  Think 
what  you  could  earn  if  you  'd  only  try.  There  's  your  voice. 
Voices  are  gold  mines." 

"My  voice,"  repeated  Bess  wonderingly. 

She  was  used  to  thinking  very  simply  of  herself,  with  no 
degree  of  pride,  and  her  voice  was  a  part  of  herself,  a  power 
that  gave  pleasure,  she  knew,  but  not  of  any  value  adequate 
to  the  estimate  these  two  women  placed  on  it.  Catherine 
and  Celia  amazed  her.  She  was  bemused  at  them.  They  ap 
peared  to  her  to  be  playing  an  intricate  game  of  which  she 
did  not  know  the  terms,  and  she  was  at  peace  only  when 
she  could  escape  from  her  brooding  over  it  and  lose  herself 
in  the  actual  work  for  which,  it  seemed  to  her,  the  earth 
was  made.  There  were  so  many  things  to  be  put  in  order 
on  it,  as  she  saw  it,  so  many  people  to  be  fed  and  made 
clean  and  have  decent  beds  spread  for  them.  The  old-fash 
ioned  woman  was  not  going  out  while  girls  like  Bess,  half- 
mother,  half-handmaiden,  were  born  into  the  world.  Celia 
was  asking  her  impatiently,  — 

"  Don't  you  want  to  sing  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Bess,  "I  like  to  sing  well  enough —  I  like  it 
ever  so  much  —  when  I  feel  like  it." 

Celia  was  jealously  afraid  that  it  was  only  low  people  who 
made  her  feel  like  it,  because  she  had  certainly  done  it  with 
glorious  abandon  to  the  gamins  in  the  street.  But  Bess 
should  be  forced  to  say. 

"  Don't  you  feel  like  it  when  nice  people  are  listening  to 
you  ?  "  she  asked,  with  some  degree  of  coldness,  "  people 
like  mamma,  like  Mrs.  Ramsay  —  or  papa?" 

"Oh,  I  could  sing  for  him  any  time  he  asked  me,"  said 
Bess  warmly.  "Any  time,  all  the  time,  if  he  wanted  I 
should." 

"  Now,  why  ?  What  makes  the  difference  ?  " 


i34      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  He  would  let  me  —  "  an  eloquent  note  had  come  into 
her  voice,  —  "  he  would  let  me  sing  in  my  gingham  dress. 
I  can't  do  anything  when  I  'm  made  into  a  kind  of  a 
monkey." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  don't  like  nice  clothes  ? " 

"  I  do  like  them,"  the  woman  in  her  cried  out  eagerly. 

Celia  was  encouraged  greatly.  Nothing  but  genuine  pas 
sion,  the  due  of  clothes,  could  have  bred  that  warm  note, 
she  knew,  in  her  sister's  voice.  Bess  was  continuing. 

"  But  if  I  've  got  to  wear  tight  slippers  and  pretend  I  've 
always  done  it,  if  I  Ve  got  to  keep  from  speaking  about  the 
Callahans  or  the  tavern  —  why,  it's  as  much  as  my  life  is 
worth  to  remember  not  to  speak  —  and  if  I  Ve  got  to  pre 
tend  I  studied  abroad,  and  hear  you  —  Oh  !  " 

Her  voice  died  weakly  in  the  thought  of  the  shame  and 
tediousness  of  it  all. 

"  Hear  me  what?  "  asked  Celia. 

But  Bess  would  not  continue,  and  Celia  beat  upon  her 
silence  with  rougher  and  yet  heartbroken  entreaties.  At 
length  she  said  it  herself. 

"Well,  I  know  what  it  is,"  she  announced  sullenly.  "You 
think  I  say  what  is  n't  so." 

But  Bess  would  not  even  strengthen  the  situation  by  ac 
cepting  it. 

"  I  do  it  for  you,"  said  Celia  passionately.  "  I  never  did 
it  in  the  world  till  I  tried  to  make  a  way  for  you." 

"  But  I  don't  want  a  way  made  for  me,"  Bess  assured 
her  now,  in  tears  of  a  vexed  harassment. 

"Then  you  should  want  it.  Don't  you  want  to  prove  to 
her  that  there  's  something  in  us  as  good  as  if  we  were  n't 
waifs  and  strays  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  should  n't  care  about  that,"  said  Bess,  in  a 
wonder. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       135 

"  I  care,  then.  I  care  dreadfully.  I  Ve  been  a  disappoint 
ment  to  her.  She  's  wanted  me  to  study  everything  she 
could  think  of  that  would  bring  me  before  the  world  and 
do  her  credit.  And  I  can  only  go  just  so  far  and  then  stop. 
I  can't  be  a  credit  to  her  and  she  knows  it.  She  's  awfully 
disappointed." 

"  What  does  she  want  you  to  be  a  credit  for?  "  Bess  in 
quired,  groping. 

"  Why,  because  everybody  has  to  have  something  to  be 
proud  of.  It  may  be  money,  or  genius,  or  social  position. 
And  she's  got  nothing.  Her  husband  can't  make  money 
for  her —  " 

"  He  could  if  he  wanted  to,"  Bess  averred  jealously. 
"  He  's  too  good." 

"  Well,  he  has  n't  made  it.  And  he  won't  entertain  with 
her.  He  won't  even  live  with  her  —  " 

"  He  's  living  with  her  now." 

"  See  how  he  '11  scud  out  of  the  house  the  minute  she 
begins  to  bring  people  into  it.  No.  She  's  a  disappointed 
woman.  And  she  's  disappointed  in  me,  and  I  can't  bear  it, 
and  if  she's  going  to  be  disappointed  in  you,  too,  I  shall 
wish  we  were  both  dead." 

"  Don't  wish  that,"  said  Bess,  out  of  a  dull  experience. 
"  It  does  no  good." 

This  was  the  closest  talk  they  had  ever  had  about  their 
personal  relations.  Celia  had  been  too  afraid  of  rinding  out 
what  would  be  better  unknown,  to  probe  far  into  her  sister's 
mind.  She  had,  in  an  involuntary  cowardice,  determined  to 
accept  her  as  she  was  and  invite  her  at  once  into  her  own 
house  of  life.  But  when  it  proved  that  Bess  had  to  be 
dragged  there,  and  that  she  stayed  only  from  minute  to  min 
ute  because  duty  bade  her  and  not  as  if  she  had  any  settled 
purpose  of  remaining,  then  they  had  to  come  to  close  quar- 


136      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

ters,  to  understand  each  other  better.  There  had  got  to  be  a 
common  language  between  them,  and  this  Celia  was  trying 
to  establish.  Bess,  in  her  habit  of  silence,  would  never  have 
asked  a  question  till  the  day  of  doom.  She  accepted  life,  she 
accepted  people  and  what  they  did  to  her.  If  they  were 
exacting,  she  stood  up  and  took  ill-usage.  If  they  were  ador 
ably  kind  —  she  had  never  contemplated  that  possibility. 
Sometimes  they  asked  too  much  of  her  in  a  way  she  had  to 
resent,  and  offered  her  hideous  homage  she  had  dealt  with 
like  a  savage,  but  her  one  stint  was  to  endure.  Besides, 
Celia  was  dinning  into  her  ears  in  a  further  pursuance  of  her 
persuasion  :  — 

"  She  has  lost  money,  quantities  of  it." 

"  Did  she  tell  you  ?  " 

"  No,  but  a  friend  of  hers  did.  They  speculated  together, 
and  one  day  Mrs.  Greenough  came  to  the  house  when  she 
was  out  and  told  me  they'd  lost  nearly  everything,  and  cried 
in  my  arms." 

"Did  you  like  her?"  Bess  asked  curiously. 

"No." 

"  But  she  cried  in  your  arms." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Celia  carelessly.  "  She  was  awfully  up 
set." 

Bess  had  been  guilty  of  her  inevitable  moment  of  wonder 
whether  Celia's  ready  embrace,  her  phraseology  of  endear 
ment,  were  more  than  a  valueless  coinage,  though  stamped 
with  the  current  die.  But  this  she  could  not  let  herself  pur 
sue  because  it  was  too  puzzling  for  her,  and  also  it  brought 
her  shame.  A  shadowy  verdict  in  the  back  of  her  mind  told 
her  that  Celia,  too,  should  be  ashamed.  Now  she  broached 
what  seemed  to  her  the  only  feasible  plan  bred  out  of  this 
confusion  of  lost  money  and  conflicting  aims. 

"  Why  don't  we  go  away  together,  you  and  I  ?  We  could 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       137 

support  ourselves.  Then  they  need  n't  maintain  us.  That 
would  be  something  off  their  hands." 

"Go  away!"  Celia  contemplated  it  for  only  an  instant 
of  incredulity.  "  Give  it  all  up  !  Give  up  her  ?  You  're 
crazy." 

"  You're  too  fond  of  her  to  give  her  up,"  Bess  suggested 
humbly.  "  Well,  I  'm  glad  of  that.  You  ought  to  be,  and 
grateful,  too." 

Celia  did  not  commit  herself  upon  that  point,  and  Bess 
asked,  in  a  moment,  with  timidity, — 

"  Celia,  when  you  said  that  before  that  man  —  Mr.  Lovell 
—  about  liking  him,  you  know  —  "  She  could  not  utter  the 
actual  word,  adore,  but  Celia  understood  and  gave  a  little 
concurring  sound,  —  "  did  you  mean  it  ?  " 

But  at  that  Celia  laughed  and  would  not  answer. 

"  I  thought  for  a  minute,"  Bess  averred,  in  a  tone  that 
indicated  she  was.  ready  to  be  derided  if  she  were  really  as 
foolish  as  she  hoped,  "I  almost  thought  —  now  you  can  be 
as  mad  as  you  want  to  with  me  —  for  a  minute  I  almost 
thought  you  meant  he  should  hear  you,  and  you  'd  thought 
how  she  said  he  had  money  and —  Oh,  you  know  you've 
tried  to  get  money  from  so  many  people  and  it 's  always  for 
me."  Her  voice  died  miserably,  in  the  shame  of  it. 

Celia  touched  her  cheek  with  a  little  cool,  kind  kiss  and 
would  not  tell.  But  presently  she  said  curiously,  — 

"Bess,  did  any  man  ever  kiss  you  ? " 

Bess  came  upright  in  bed,  escaping  her  sister's  arms.  She 
sat  there  breathing  resentment  of  a  sort  that  seemed  to  be 
power  in  itself. 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  about  them,"  she  said,  with  a  hot 
spasm  in  her  voice.  "  I  hate  them." 

"Men?" 

"Yes." 


i3 8      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  What  for  ?  What  should  you  hate  them  for  ?  Come 
back  and  tell  me." 

Bess  sat  there  in  her  lovely  state,  her  brows  knotted  over 
angry  eyes.  This  she  felt,  and  hated  the  tension  of  it  and 
was  glad  nobody  could  see  her  in  the  dark.  She  was  savage 
at  the  thought  of  emotion,  and  turned  her  back  on  it.  Only 
the  cool,  clear  ways  of  being  suited  her. 

"  They  used  to  try  to  talk  to  me  at  the  tavern,"  she  said. 
"They  were  mostly  a  common  lot.  Some  of  them  —  the 
worst  of  them  —  tried  to  —  " 

Her  voice  failed  her,  and  Celia,  in  an  equal  throb  of 
anger,  sat  up  in  bed  beside  her. 

"  To  kiss  you  ? "  she  whispered,  as  if  the  word  hurt  her. 

"Yes."   In  her  sister's  voice  there  was  nothing  but  shame. 

"  And  they  did  n't !  they  did  n't !  "  Celia  cried. 

"No!" 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"  Went  away.  Hid.  Looked  them  in  the  face.  One  man 
I  knocked  down." 

"You  did,  Bess  ?  You  did  that?  How  could  you?" 

"  I  could  n't  if  he  'd  expected  it.  I  was  ashamed  of  it.  I 
never  saw  him  again." 

"  Did  you  think  you  had  killed  him  ?  " 

"No." 

"Were  you  frightened?" 

"  No.   I  hated  him." 

Then  they  went  back  to  their  pillows,  and  shuddered  out 
their  horror  of  it  each  alone. 

"  That's  why  —  "  Bess  yielded  to  a  choking  sob — "that's 
why  I  don't  want  you  to  lead  them  on.  That  was  leading 
him  on  this  afternoon.  It 's  dreadful." 

"  But  he  's  not  like  that,"  Celia  wondered. 

"  No.  But  you  don't  know  what  it  is.  You're  pretty,  dar- 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      139 

ling."  The  tender  word  had  never  escaped  her  before,  and 
Celia,  who  was  beginning  to  know  her,  saw  how  deep  an  emo 
tion  must  have  given  it  birth.  "They  could  n't  help  liking 
you.  But  they  've  thought  I  was  the  dirt  under  their  feet.  So 
you  be  careful." 

They  clasped  hands  then  and  dropped  away  to  sleep.  But 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  Celia  came  half-awake  and  turned 
to  her  sister. 

"But  you  were  n't,"  she  cried  wildly,  out  of  her  dream, 
"  you  were  n't  the  dirt  under  their  feet." 

"  No,  dear,  no,"  said  Bess,  and  drew  the  blanket  over  her. 


XI 

THE  next  morning  Winterbourne  came  home,  enter 
ing  the  kitchen  door  and  finding  Lyddy  seated  at  the 
corner  of  the  bare  cooking-table,  taking  her  early  cup 
of  tea.  This,  he  realized,  with  a  sensation  of  immediate  peace, 
was  as  he  liked  the  house,  asleep,  with  a  silent  servitor  ready 
to  let  him  share  her  own  simple  satisfactions.  The  forms  of 
social  life,  the  necessity  of  doing  this  or  that  according  to  an 
established  code  lest  you  break  faith  with  the  other  movers  in 
the  game,  seemed  to  him  like  finding  litter  in  what  should  be 
an  uninterrupted  path  —  the  road  to  true  pleasure  and  the 
arts.   Lyddy,  who  no  doubt  enshrined  him  in  her  heart  as 
the  fount  of  all  her  blessings,  had  no  obtrusive  respect  to 
offer  him,  and  that  he  liked.  She  looked  up,  and  nodded  at 
him,  and  inquired  with  only  a  moderate  show  of  interest, — 
"Got  home?" 

"Yes,"  said  Winterbourne.  "Any  more  tea?" 
Lyddy  rose,  for  sufficient  answer,  poured  him  a  cup,  and 
gave  it  to  him  on  the  broadside  of  the  bare  table.  She  went 
into  the  dining-room  and  returned  with  the  great  dish  of  fruit 
ready  for  the  family  breakfast  and  set  it  before  him  beside 
the  bread  and  butter  that  had  made  her  own  repast.  Winter- 
bourne  was  greedy  of  fruit.  He  sat  and  ate  oranges  with  a 
generous  gusto,  and  then  attacked  his  bread  and  tea  in  the 
delight  of  the  healthy  man's  appetite  for  simple  things.  Lyddy 
began  mixing  a  corn-cake  for  breakfast,  and  Winterbourne 
sometimes  watched  her  lame  trot  about  the  kitchen  and  some 
times  stared  out  of  the  window  with  an  equally  absent  gaze. 
If  home  could  be  like  this,  he  was  glad  to  be  here.  Lyddy 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       141 

slid  her  cake  into  the  oven  and  clanged  the  door  on  it.  Then 
she  stood  by  the  stove,  evidently  calculating  on  her  next  move 
in  the  day's  circuit.  But  suddenly  her  mood  seemed  to  be 
sharply  invaded.  She  turned  on  him  a  quick  glance  from  her 
piercing  eyes. 

"  How  long  they  goin'  to  stay?"  she  inquired. 

Winterbourne  started,  brought  back  to  social  ties. 

"Who?"  he  asked  perversely. 

"  Your  folks." 

cc  My  wife  will  stay  as  long  as  it  suits  her,"  he  returned 
with  dignity,  which  instantly  broke  down  under  the  certainty 
that  Lyddy  knew  him  better  than  any  human  person,  except, 
perhaps,  that  sane,  sweet  child  who  was  Celia's  sister.  She 
seemed  to  show  capacities  of  understanding  all  the  normal 
desires  and  aversions  of  healthy  life.  "  Oh,  I  don't  know," 
he  added  irritably.  "  Why  under  the  heavens  can't  you  like 
folks,  Lyddy?  What's  the  sense  of  your  being  so  cross- 
grained  and  no  good  generally  ? " 

Lyddy  took  no  notice. 

"  You  don't  like  folks  yourself,"  she  remarked,  with  an 
unmoved  front. 

"  I  don't  ?  Who  is  it  I  don't  like,  you  old  catamount  ? " 

Lyddy's  mouth  widened  in  the  knowing  grin  that  answered 
her  for  rare  acknowledgment  of  the  humors  of  the  world. 

cc  Me,  I  guess,"  she  vouchsafed  calmly,  and  went  into  the 
woodshed  about  some  more  remote  task. 

Winterbourne  shook  his  head  at  her  back,  and  then  even 
shook  his  fist,  and  went  off  through  the  dining-room  to  the 
sitting-room,  where  he  thought  he  could  light  a  fire  and  steal 
half  an  hour's  reading  before  the  women  were  down.  But  as 
he  went,  he  debated  uneasily  in  a  strain  he  hardly  dared  ac 
cept  as  the  thoughts  he  was  willing  to  think.  Did  he  fail  to 
like  people  ?  he  wondered.  Did  he  fail  to  like  his  wife  ? 


142      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

The  dining-room,  as  he  walked  through  it,  looked  differ 
ent  to  him.  There  was  a  subtile  air  of  exquisite  order  and  a 
cleanliness  so  fine,  where  everything  had  been  clean  before, 
that  he  almost  felt  the  fragrance  of  it  in  his  nostrils.  There 
were  muslin  curtains  at  the  windows.  These  he  did  not  note 
as  curtains.  Only  he  saw  there  was  a  veiled  and  shimmering 
effect  where  once  there  had  been  squares  of  light  from  win 
dows  not  always  clear.  The  whole  thing  seemed  veiled  in  an 
artful  way,  —  petticoated.  He  grumbled  a  little,  inarticulately. 
It  was  exquisite,  yet  it  meant  women.  But  in  the  sitting-room, 
in  his  own  den,  there  was  another  sort  of  difference,  —  clean 
liness  here,  but  not  ornamented  and  befringed.  There  were 
no  draperies  at  the  windows.  Yet  the  house-genius  had  been 
here,  also,  only  to  another  end.  The  litter  of  dust  and  chips 
that  had  used  to  mark  his  trail  when  he  brought  in  wood  was 
replaced  by  a  speckless  floor.  The  andirons  shone.  The  win 
dows  sparkled  at  him.  The  fire  burned  brightly,  and,  most 
tranquillizing  sight,  his  light-stand  was  drawn  before  the  fire 
and  his  book  was  on  it.  There,  too,  was  his  chair,  and  he 
smiled  confidentially  to  himself  in  thinking  that,  if  his  pipe 
and  pouch  were  not  at  that  moment  in  his  pocket,  they  would 
seem  to  be  welcome  on  the  bare,  clean  mantel,  destitute  of 
hatefully  obstructing  vase  or  statuette. 

He  sank  into  his  chair  and  stretched  his  legs  to  the  blaze, 
looking  somnolently  into  it,  not  because  he  was  sleepy  thus 
early  after  daybreak,  but  because  fire  always  charmed  him. 
He  heard  steps  in  the  dining-room,  and  looked  across  the 
hall  at  Bess  moving  about  in  a  quiet,  absorbed  way,  setting 
the  table.  She  had  on  a  white  dress  with  a  blue  figure  in  it, 
made  in  what  he  thought  a  very  modest  fashion  to  fit  her 
work,  with  a  round  waist  and  only  a  few  ruffles.  That  it  was 
old-fashioned  he  did  not  know,  —  really  her  best  dress  saved 
from  the  tavern  days  and  brought  with  her  into  these  am- 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      143 

bitious  paths  because,  although  she  might  not,  two  weeks 
ago,  have  expected  to  wear  it  ever,  it  had  cost  her  too  much 
pains,  too  many  stolen  minutes  of  sewing  after  ten  at  night, 
to  be  relinquished  lightly.  While  he  watched  her  with  the 
half-smile  of  absorbed  attention,  she  set  a  large  clear  glass 
of  jonquils  on  the  table,  and  when  she  found  she  had  put 
them  in  a  shaft  of  sunlight,  seemed  to  stop,  absorbed,  and 
regard  them  with  a  musing  wonder.  Winterbourne  under 
stood.  She  was  worshipping  them,  he  thought,  and  while  she 
worshipped,  the  spring  outside  the  window  and  the  spring 
of  life  quickened  in  her.  But  she  took  herself  away.  There 
were  other  tasks.  One  was  to  find  the  morning  paper  on  the 
hall  floor  and  bring  it  in  to  him,  with  her  careful  air  of  wish 
ing  to  fulfil  all  needs  as  soon  as  possible. 

"  You  need  n't  give  me  that,"  said  Winterbourne.  "  I 
don't  want  your  morning  paper." 

She  smoothed  it  into  a  compacter  fold,  and  laid  it  on  the 
side  table. 

"  Don't  you,  sir?"  she  asked;  and  then,  evidently  as  a 
service  not  to  be  resisted,  took  a  handful  of  cones  out  of  the 
basket  and  dropped  them  on  the  fire. 

Winterbourne  laughed  out.  Her  painstaking  satisfaction 
in  all  the  little  beauty-breeding  devices  of  the  house  gave  her 
a  touching  interest. 

"Daughter  of  earth  !"  he  said. 

"  What,  sir  ?  "  asked  Bess. 

He  laughed  again,  and  put  out  his  hand  to  her  as  if  in  a 
deferred  greeting,  and  she  laid  hers  in  it.  She  looked  at  him, 
frankly  smiling.  He  was  entirely  worthy  to  be  the  master  of 
the  house,  her  instinct  told  her,  whom  it  would  be  her  pride 
to  serve. 

"Bess,"  said  Winterbourne,  "you  sang  something  in 
Italian,  the  other  day — Che  faro  —  " 


i44      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

He  seemed  to  be  prompting  her,  and  she  nodded,  her  eyes 
still  on  his,  like  a  creature  that  has  been  caught  and  needs 
to  know  what  is  expected  of  it. 

"  Sing  it  to  me,"  he  commanded. 

She  opened  her  lips  obediently,  and  the  room  echoed  to 
lovely  melody.  Winterbourne  fancied  the  old  walls  thrilled 
in  pleasure,  though  he  smiled  at  her  painstaking  eagerness 
in  the  task,  and  understood  perfectly  that  she  was  so  pleased 
to  see  him  that  the  music  was  quite  a  fountain  of  joy.  Her 
white  teeth,  the  beautiful  red  of  her  open  mouth,  commended 
themselves  to  him,  and  he  thought  her  exquisitely  endowed, 
if  only,  for  purposes  of  song,  she  proved  to  have  sufficient 
brains. 

"What  did  it  mean,  Bess?"  he  asked  her  gently,  still 
keeping  her  hand. 

Her  face,  eager  for  his  approval,  warmed  by  a  quick, 
bright  flush.  He  was  afraid  the  seeking  eyes  were  about  to 
have  tears  in  them. 

"  I  forgot,"  she  faltered.  "  I  do  know  what  it  means,  but 
I  forgot." 

"  You  thought  it  was  just  a  song,"  he  encouraged  her. 
"You  wanted  to  please  me  with  it.  You  did  n't  remember 
it  was  written  by  somebody  in  trouble." 

"  Was  he  in  trouble?  "  she  asked  eagerly. 

"He?" 

"  The  composer  ?  " 

Winterbourne  wondered  when  he  should  find  the  depth 
of  her  ingenuousness. 

"  Not  the  composer,"  he  answered,  with  that  same  quietude 
which  seemed  calculated  to  leave  her,  like  a  bird,  sitting  on 
the  eggs  of  her  wonder.  "  The  lover.  It  is  sung  by  Orpheus, 
you  know.  He  loved  Eurydice  so  much  that  he  went  down 
into  hell  to  find  her." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      145 

Bess  was  looking  at  him  in  a  clear,  bright  questioning. 
She  seemed  to  challenge  the  gravity  of  his  meaning. 

"  He  could  n't  really,"  she  rejoined.  "  What  makes  you 
say  he  did  ?  " 

"  It  is  an  old  story,"  Winterbourne  continued  cautiously, 
proving  his  way  by  study  of  her  face.  "  We  can  say  any 
thing,  if  the  story  's  old  enough." 

"  He  couldn't  go  down  into  hell,"  Bess  rejoined,  with 
entire  conviction.  "  Nobody  but  Christ  could  do  that." 

This  brought  Winterbourne  to  earth  he  found  debatable. 

"  The  old  stories  mean  a  good  deal,"  he  said.  "  They 
mean  something  that  is  always  true.  Don't  you  think,  if  you 
loved  a  person  very  much,  you  could  bear  to  go  down  into 
hell  to  find  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  promptly,  "  I  could,  —  Celia,  or 
you." 

This  was  unexpected,  and  he  dropped  her  hand.  But  she 
was  evidently  considering  the  means  of  locomotion  thither 
with  the  quiet  absorption  in  things  as  they  are. 

"  But  there  would  n't  be  any  way,"  she  said  conclusively. 
"  There  is  n't  any  road  down  into  hell.  Hell  is  n't  a  place." 

This  seemed  hopeful,  and  he  asked,  "What  is  it?  "  But 
she  shook  her  head. 

He  changed  his  ground.  "  Do  you  know  Italian  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  nodded  brightly,  as  if  she  had  now  the 
means  to  please  him.  "  I  know  this  song.  I  learned  it  when 
I  was  sitting  in  the  hall,  waiting  for  my  lesson.  He  was 
teaching  it  to  somebody  else.  And  I  know  Batti,  batti,  and 
I  know  three  others." 

"  But  this  song :  Orpheus  sings  it.  What  does  it  mean  ? 
What  did  he  mean  by  singing  it  ?  " 

By  that  he  seemed  to  have  found  the  numb  spot  in  her 


i46      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

brain,  and  she  looked  at  him  with  no  manner  of  response. 
She  even  seemed  distressed,  as  if  knowing  she  was  about  to 
disappoint  him.  That  Winterbourne  saw,  and  forestalled  it 
quickly. 

"  Never  mind,"  he  said.  "  After  breakfast  you  come  in  here 
to  me,  and  we  '11  talk  Italian.  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  what 
you  'd  say  if  you  and  I  were  living  in  Italy  and  I  wanted 
to  ask  you  what  those  yellow  flowers  are  out  there  on  the 
table  —  " 

"  Daffys  !  "  she  breathed  involuntarily. 

"  And  what  there  was  for  breakfast,  and  what  makes  Lyddy 
fasten  us  out  of  the  kitchen  —  " 

"  Why,  it 's  her  kitchen,"  said  Bess,  "  I  know  that." 

Winterbourne  gave  a  hoot  of  laughter,  and  wondered 
whether,  though  she  looked  so  sweetly  appointed  for  life,  she 
might  really  be  an  idiot  child  after  all ;  and  at  that  moment 
there  was  the  swift  rustle  of  silk  on  the  stairs,  and  his  wife 
came  in,  attaching  her  lorgnon  to  her  chain.  Celia  followed 
her.  They  were  both,  in  the  most  flattering  manner,  respon 
sive  at  the  sight  of  him. 

"  John  ! "  exclaimed  his  wife,  and  "  Papa  ! "  Celia  vouch 
safed,  coming  in  but  one  beat  after.  They  ranged  themselves 
in  front  of  him,  and  regarded  him  with  a  welcome  that  seemed 
overdrawn.  He  pulled  his  brows  together  and  scowled  at 
them. 

"  What 's  this  ?  "  he  asked.  He  put  out  a  forefinger,  and 
touched  Catherine's  sleeve. 

"  This  ?  "  She  looked  down  at  it  through  her  lorgnon. 
"  What  does  it  seem  to  be,  John  ?  Celia,  what  is  it  ?  " 

He  had  removed  the  mandatory  forefinger.  Now  it  was 
indicating  Celia's  person. 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  this  is  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  The 
cloth,  the  goods." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       147 

"  Mercy,  papa,  they  're  lingerie  waists,"  said  Celia.  cc  I 
don't  know  what  the  cloth  is.  It 's  cotton.  Do  you  want  to 
know  what  our  skirts  are  ?  Mine  's  serge  and  mamma's 
is  etamine" 

Winterbourne  spoke  to  himself,  as  if  in  wonder. 

"  They  look  like  soft  stuff.  They  don't  look  as  if  they  'd 
make  a  noise,  and  yet  wherever  you  go  about  the  house, 
it 's  rustle,  rustle,  like  blades  of  corn  against  each  other  in 
the  wind." 

"  That 's  petticoats,"  said  Celia.  "  Silk  petticoats.  Every 
body  has  silk  petticoats." 

"  No,  they  don't,"  said  Winterbourne.  "  She  does  n't 
have  'em."  He  pointed  a  tragic  arm  at  Bess  who  had  brushed 
up  the  hearth  and  was  prepared  to  leave  the  room  when  this 
invocation  brought  her  back,  half-startled,  into  public  notice. 
"  She  does  n't  go  round  the  house  with  screaming  petticoats. 
She  walks  softly,  like  a  decent  girl.  My  father  Jupiter ! 
Pleiades  and  Orion  and  the  sun  and  moon  ! "  His  rage  came 
upon  him.  His  beard  seemed  to  bristle  and  his  hair  to  rise. 
"  Are  women  to  go  crackling  round  this  earth  breaking  into 
the  music  of  the  spheres,  drowning  the  voice  of  the  morning 
stars  as  they  sing  together,  with  the  swish,  swish  of  petticoats 
made  by  damned  silkworms  ?  " 

"  O  John  !  "  trembled  his  wife. 

She  had  risen  so  sweetly,  and  her  day  seemed  to  be  dark 
ened  before  her  by  a  sombre  curtain.  But  somebody  gave  a 
little  giggle.  It  was  Bess,  there  on  the  threshold  looking 
back  at  them.  For  an  instant  Celia  was  aghast,  but  she  saw 
the  mirth  run  into  Winterbourne's  eyes,  and  augmented  it 
with  a  little  shout  and  crow  of  pleasure.  It  seemed  to  her 
that,  by  no  effort,  she  had  the  key  to  him,  or  rather  that 
Bess,  without  knowing  it,  held  the  key  and  had  lent  it  to  her 
for  one  brief  sufficient  minute.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life, 


i48      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

perhaps,  Winterbourne  saw  the  key  was  delivered  up.  He 
snatched  a  block  of  wood  from  the  hearth  and  threatened 
them. 

"  Out  of  my  way  !  "  he  commanded.  "  Out  of  this  room  ! 
Go  !  efface  yourselves,  eat  your  breakfasts,  get  some  nour 
ishment  into  your  brains,  and  then  you,  Bess,  come  back  to 
me  and  take  your  lesson. " 

They  went,  the  two  girls  gayly,  and  his  wife  in  a  smiling 
compliance  with  what  seemed  to  be  the  new  order  of  the  day. 
But  as  Bess  brought  in  the  breakfast  and  Mrs.  Winterbourne 
painstakingly  read  over  an  editorial  she  was  sure  Anna  Clay 
ton  Ramsay  had  assimilated  perfectly,  if  she  had  not  even 
written  it,  her  delicate  hand,  holding  the  lorgnon,  trembled 
a  little,  and  she  took  a  timid  glance  or  two  over  it  at  her 
husband,  peacefully  reading  in  the  other  room.  When  the 
coffee  was  before  her,  she  looked  at  Bess  and  nodded  toward 
him. 

"  Call  your  father,  Bess,"  she  said  half-suggestingly.  "  Or 
you  might  touch  the  bell/' 

"He's  had  his  breakfast/'  said  Bess.  "He  had  it  in  the 
kitchen  half  an  hour  ago." 

It  was  a  remark  she  was  not  unwilling  to  make,  Cath 
erine  saw  with  pain.  It  looked  like  another  proof  of  the 
girl's  social  density.  How  should  it  not  be  disturbing  for 
one  member  of  the  family  to  prefer  to  take  his  breakfast  in 
the  kitchen  ? 

Bess  ate  in  some  haste  and  then  sat  with  her  hands 
tightly  folded  under  the  cloth,  glancing  from  one  to  the 
other  as  if  she  were  in  readiness  for  the  meal  to  end.  When 
Catherine  did  rise,  and  Celia,  having  selected  a  jonquil  to 
draw  through  her  belt,  with  her,  Bess  flew  about  her  tasks 
with  hurrying  feet.  She  always  cleared  the  table  and  carried 
the  dishes  into  the  kitchen,  to  leave  Lyddy  in  a  carefully 


JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       149 

woven  illusion  that  her  work  lay  there  and  in  no  other  part 
of  the  house.  Celia  helped,  in  a  pretty,  desultory  way,  and 
when  they  had  done,  Bess  vanished  to  present  herself  before 
Winterbourne  who  had  now  partly  forgotten  and  was  deep 
in  poetry.  For  two  or  three  minutes  she  stood  silently  be 
fore  him,  and  then  he  did  look  up  at  her. 

"What?  "He  frowned.  "What  is  it?  You 're  the  girl  that 
laughed  at  me  awhile  ago.  What  do  you  want  now  ? " 

She  did  not  seem  able  to  speak,  but  fastened  on  him  with 
reminding  eyes. 

"I  know,"  said  Winterbourne.  He  laid  down  his  book. 
"To  be  sure  I  know.  We're  going  to  talk  Italian.  Sit  you 
down  in  that  little  chair,  and  answer  what  I  bid  you." 

Now  Celia  and  Catherine  had  arrived,  Catherine  with  her 
lorgnon  unnecessarily  to  her  eyes,  and  curiosity  coming  out 
all  over  her,  like  steam. 

"  Are  you  going  to  teach  that  child  Italian  ? "  she  asked. 
"That's  perfectly  splendid  of  you.  But  you  can't  stop 
there.  We  '11  have  a  class." 

Winterbourne  laid  his  glasses  on  his  book  and  looked  at 
her.  He  did  not  storm.  In  the  back  of  his  mind  there  was 
a  ticklish  suspicion  that  somebody  might  laugh,  because  the 
unknown  had  happened  and  he  had  been  laughed  at  once. 

"  No,"  said  he,  "  no,  Catherine.  It 's  not  going  to  be  a 
class.  You  and  Celia  run  about  your  business.  Bess  and  I 
are  going  to  talk  Italian  and  we  're  going  to  talk  alone." 

"  But  really,  dear,"  said  his  wife,  with  an  animated  play  of 
the  lorgnon,  "  it  would  be  of  the  greatest  possible  use  to  us 
if  you  'd  let  us  come  in.  Celia  speaks  quite  fluently,  as  it  is. 
She  was  of  the  greatest  service  in  Florence  when  all  I  could 
think  of  was  acqua  calda^  and  every  time  I  said  it,  it  seemed 
as  if  I  were  asking  for  cold  water  instead  of  hot.  It  is  hot, 
is  n't  it — calda  ?  Yes,  I  know  how  I  had  to  remember  that 


1 5o      JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

difference  all  the  time.  But  don't  you  think,  if  you  really 
want  Bess  to  learn,  she  will  acquire  confidence  a  great  deal 
faster  if  there  are  more  of  us  —  " 

Winterbourne  rose  from  his  chair  and  stood  ceremoni 
ously,  looking  at  his  wife.  She  faltered ;  the  words  froze  on 
her  lips.  Celia  was  standing  in  the  doorway,  enchanted  that 
her  sister  had  found  a  partisan.  She  kissed  her  hand  to  them 
impartially. 

"Come,  mamma,"  said  she.  "Come  help  me  address  the 
envelopes  for  the  circular." 

"Well,  if  you  really  don't  want  us,"  said  Catherine,  "if 
you  really  think  — 

Here  she  retreated,  and  Winterbourne  resumed  his  seat. 

"  Take  your  chair,  child,"  he  said,  with  an  immediate 
gentleness  for  his  chosen  pupil.  "  Yes,  that  stool 's  well 
enough.  Now,  here  we  are  !  " 

Bess  was  not  there  entirely.  She  was  looking  at  the  door 
way  where  Catherine  had  disappeared.  Distress  of  a  mild 
nature  was  on  her  smooth  forehead. 

"  Don't  you  think,  sir,"  she  hesitated,  "  don't  you  think 
you  might  have  let  them  stay?" 

"What?  Stay?  Oh,"  said  Winterbourne,  quite  uncon 
cerned  about  them  now  they  were  gone.  "  No,  they  don't 
want  to  stay.  They  only  want  to  dance  round  the  pot  and 
stir  it  if  they  think  there  's  something  doing.  You  and  I 
have  got  to  kill  the  kid  and  skin  it  and  pick  the  herbs  and 
watch  the  pot  all  day.  Then  when  it  comes  supper-time, 
they  can  skulk  round  and  taste  the  brew,  if  they  like.  Not 
now.  Now  we  're  going  to  talk  about  Italy." 

She  sat  like  a  still  little  animal,  her  eyes  almost  unwink- 
ingly  on  his  face.  She  was  afraid,  he  saw,  of  letting  wisdom 
slip,  and  it  tickled  him  because  nothing  was  so  important  as 
all  this  came  to. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      151 

"  What  can  you  tell  me  about  Italy  ? "  he  asked,  pur 
posely  in  the  manner  of  the  instructor. 

She  accepted  the  cue  and  responded  instantly,  — 

"  Italy  is  situated  in  the  southern  part  of  the  continent  of 
Europe.  Rome  is  the  capital  of  Italy.  The  principal  pro 
ductions  are  —  " 

It  was,  he  thought,  his  own  old  geography,  probably  stud 
ied  in  some  country  region  where  one  generation  inherited 
the  textbook  of  another,  and  the  traditions  of  teaching  had 
been  unchanged  for  fifty  years.  But  he  stopped  her. 

"  That 's  very  well,"  said  he,  "  very  well  indeed.  Now  I 
want  to  tell  you  how  I  went  there."  He  began  as  if  it  were 
a  fairy  story,  and  Bess  sat  with  that  unchanging  gaze  upon 
his  face.  "  When  I  was  little  more  than  a  boy,"  said  Winter- 
bourne,  "perhaps  three  years  older  than  you  are  now,  I  took 
passage  on  a  small  fruit  steamer  and  shipped  for  Italy.  We 
had  a  long  voyage,  and  all  the  way  I  was  reading  from  a 
case  of  books  I  took  with  me.  I  had  a  beautiful  time.  We 
landed  at  Naples  and  I  went  straight  to  Rome." 

"  The  capital !  " 

"  Yes,  the  capital.  I  'm  not  going  to  tell  you  what  I  saw 
there,  nor  what  I  saw  in  Florence,  nor  the  little  hill  towns 
that  are  as  beautiful,"  —  he  paused  for  a  simile  and  selected 
one  to  fit  her,  —  "  as  pretty  as  the  picture  on  a  card." 

Bess  nodded. 

"  It  was  very  warm,  the  sky  was  blue,  the  sea  was  blue, 
there  were  flowers,  and  men  and  women  in  queer  and  pretty 
clothes.  But  what  I  want  really  to  tell  you  about  Italy  is 
this." 

He  leaned  forward  and  looked  into  her  eyes  with  his 
great  brown  ones,  bright  with  their  enchanter's  gleam. 
What  he  had  to  say  to  her,  she  saw,  was  of  immense  im 
portance  to  him,  and  she  made  up  her  mind  it  must  be 


1 52      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

valuable  to  her  also.  As  he  seemed  to  be  probing  her  intelli 
gence  by  that  piercing  eye-gleam,  so  she  was  calling  on  her 
mind  to  meet  it.  Winterbourne  felt  sure  that  at  least  she 
would  memorize  what  he  told  her. 

"  Italy,"  he  said,  "  is  a  very  old  country.  So  is  Greece. 
So  is  all  Europe  old.  But  now  we're  talking  about  Italy 
and  we  won't  speak  of  any  of  the  others,  except  Greece, 
because  from  Greece  Italy  got  beautiful  stories.  In  the  old, 
old  times  when  Italy  and  Greece  were  as  beautiful  as  they  are 
now,  and  more  beautiful  because  none  of  their  temples  had 
been  destroyed,  men  believed  there  were  a  great  many  gods." 

"  Yes,"  said  Bess  breathlessly.  "  They  were  pagans." 

"  We  know  some  of  the  things  they  believed  about  the 
gods.  We  have  learned  the  stories  about  them.  They  are 
the  most  wonderful  stories  there  are.  They  always  will  be, 
because  they  are  about  things  that  are  just  as  true  to-day 
as  they  were  then.  They  are  eternal." 

"  Eternal !  "  said  Bess,  as  if  she  liked  the  sound. 

"  Do  you  know  the  story  of  Cupid  and  Psyche  ?  " 

She  had  heard  of  Cupid,  possibly,  he  thought,  in  connec 
tion  with  valentines,  but  never  of  Psyche,  and  he  told  her. 

"She  should  not  have  asked  him,"  said  Bess,  at  the  end. 

"She  didn't  ask  anything,"  said  Winterbourne, watching 
her.  "  She  only  lighted  the  lamp,  to  see." 

"Yes,  but  it  Js  just  the  same.  It 's  just  like  asking  people 
questions  when  they  don't  want  to  tell  you." 

This  was  the  first  door  opened,  he  saw.  She  was  fitting 
his  word  eternal  to  the  old  and  making  it  the  new.  She  had 
a  mind. 

"  Then  there  were  Orpheus  and  Eurydice." 

"Cbefaro  —  "  she  breathed. 

"Yes.  I  told  you  it  was  a  love-story.  But  it's  more 
than  a  love-story." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       153 

He  paused  there,  and  wondered  how  far  she  could  follow 
him.  What  had  her  unmellowed  mind  to  do  with  myth  or 
nature-worship  ?  But  he  risked  it  and  leaped  with  her  into 
Greece,  to  Persephone  and  the  Vale  of  Enna.  Winterbourne 
was  a  story-teller  by  gift.  He  contended  that  life  was  all 
one  big  story  and  the  little  stories  were  the  children  of  it ; 
to  make  them,  remember  them,  tell  them,  this  was  not  the 
diversion  of  an  idle  hour,  but  the  weaving  of  the  many- 
colored  web  of  being  and  causing  it  to  move  in  sun  and 
wind.  He  grew  eloquent  as  he  went  on,  lured  by  her  answer 
ing  warmth,  the  brightness  of  her  face.  She  was  vividly 
responsive.  Somehow,  as  he  saw,  he  was  making  spring  and 
the  awakening  walk  before  her  like  a  procession  of  nymphs. 
As  he  talked,  the  flowers  opened  and  before  he  ended,  the 
Vale  of  Enna  bloomed,  blossom  by  blossom,  at  their  feet. 
She  clapped  her  hands  softly. 

"  I  like  that,"  said  she.  "  That 's  a  good  story.  It 's  better 
than  a  love-story." 

"  But  it  is  a  love-story." 

"Better  than  just  a  love-story,  about  a  man  and  a  woman. 
That 's  silly,  half  the  time." 

Winterbourne  watched  her  curiously,  probing  for  the 
heart  of  her  simple  mystery. 

"That's  only  one  story,"  he  said.  "When  you  sing 
your  song,  about  Orpheus  and  Eurydice  — " 

"Cbefaro?" 

"Yes.  Would  you  rather  think  it's  about  the  wind  sigh 
ing  and  singing  over  the  souls  of  the  dead,  or  would  you 
rather  think  Orpheus  is  a  young  man  in  love  with  a  girl 
and  going  down  into  hell  to  find  her?" 

There  was  no  choice,  he  saw.  Her  face  dulled  at  the 
apparition  of  the  young  man. 

"Sing  it,"  he  bade  her  suddenly,  with  a  masterful  vio- 


154     JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

lence.  {C  Orpheus  is  the  unhappy  wind  wailing  over  the 
brown  earth  to  find  the  flowers.  What  would  happen  if  he 
could  call  the  spring  back  again  ?  There  would  be  green 
grass  and  hot  sun  and  flowers  everywhere.  Sing  about  it  — 
the  way  we  feel  in  winter  when  we  want  the  spring." 

She  got  obediently  off  her  stool,  folded  her  hands,  fixed 
her  eyes  on  the  quickened  trees  without,  and  began  to  sing. 
The  tone  was  glorious.  The  light  came  into  his  eyes  at  the 
throbbing  beauty  of  it.  Bess  was  not  longing  for  love  and 
lovers.  She  was  what  he  had  called  her,  a  daughter  of  earth, 
and  the  earth  and  the  sun  and  the  waters  and  winds  called 
to  her  and  moved  her  and  caused  her  to  be  obedient  to 
them. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  when  she  had  finished.  "  That 's  true. 
That 's  right.  Now  sit  down  and  I  '11  tell  you  how  we 
talked  in  Italy." 

She  sat  down,  warm-eyed  and  flushed  by  his  praise,  and 
he  began  to  teach  her  simple  phrases.  She  was  very  dutiful 
in  repeating  them  with  the  extremest  care,  but  when  they  mul 
tiplied,  she  grew  restive.  Then  she  asked,  — 

"  Don't  you  think  I  'd  better  get  a  pencil  and  paper  ?  " 

He  nodded,  and  she  brought  them  and,  in  a  childish  hand, 
wrote  on  a  book  propped  upon  her  knee.  When  he  had  done, 
she  slipped  the  paper  into  her  apron-pocket,  and  stood  up. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  she  said.  "  I  '11  learn  them  all  before 
to-morrow.  Here  is  Mr.  Hunter." 

Dwight  Hunter  had  come  in  through  the  kitchen  and  was 
waiting,  cap  in  hand,  to  speak.  Winterbourne,  seeing  him, 
thought  what  a  handsome  boy  he  was,  not  unlike  Orpheus, 
and  wondered  how  this  singing  girl  could  help  sending  him  a 
luring  cry  in  her  rich  young  voice,  with  a  look  even,  to 
follow.  But  Bess  was  asking  him  only, — 

"  Mr.  Hunter,  do  you  know  where  the  rest  of  the  carrot- 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       155 

seed  was  put  ?  The  dogs  have  scratched  up  a  big  place  half 
way  down  the  lot ;  I  'm  going  to  sow  some  more." 

"  It's  up  in  the  shed-chamber,"  said  Hunter,  looking  at 
her  in  a  dumb  way,  as  if  it  hurt  him  to  speak  to  her,  and  yet 
as  if  he  must  speak.  "  I  put  all  the  seeds  together  there." 

She  passed  him,  and  he  came  in  to  Winterbourne. 

"  Sit  down,  Hunter,"  said  Winterbourne  kindly.  "Any 
thing  the  matter  ?  What  is  it,  Dwight  ? " 

The  young  man  looked  at  him  in  the  same  appealing  way 
that  had  yet  a  fierceness  in  it. 

"  I  'm  going  to  marry  her,"  he  said. 

Winterbourne  gripped  the  arms  of  his  chair,  and  looked 
at  him. 

"  Good  God,  Dwight,"  he  said  at  length,  "  you  can't  marry 
her."' 

"  I  'm  going  to,"  said  Dwight  immovably,  as  if  the  words 
cost  him  something  and  the  fact  would  demand  of  him  yet 
more.  "  Why  can't  I  ?  " 

"  She  won't  have  you,  boy.  She  does  n't  care  for  any 
thing  but  the  sun  and  moon."  :;.  tl 

To  Dwight,  who  knew  nothing  about  the  touchstone  of 
Orpheus  applied  to  her,  this  was  madness,  but  he  only  an 
swered  steadily,  — 

"  She  's  got  to." 

"  Well,  don't  hurry  her,  then.  She's  nothing  but  a  child." 

"  I  've  got  to  hurry  her.  Lovell  's  gone  to  town." 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  He's  gone  to  get  togs.  He  asked  me  who  was  a  good 
tailor." 

Winterbourne  stared,  puffing  his  cheeks  with  astonish 
ment. 

"What  does  he  want  of  a  tailor?"  was  what  occurred  to 
him  to  say. 


156      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S  FAMILY 

"  He  danced  with  us,  down  at  the  Point." 

"  Lovell  danced  !  my  heavenly  Belshazzar  and  the  Milky 
Way  !  Can't  men  dance  with  a  girl  but  they  must  marry 
her  ?  " 

"  I  shall  ask  her  before  he  gets  back/'  said  Dwight. 

He  turned  and  left  the  room,  and  it  was  only  when  Winter- 
bourne  heard  his  determined  stride  into  the  kitchen  that  he 
awoke  enough  to  take  out  his  pipe  and  fill  it  slowly.  But  he 
read  no  more  that  morning. 

Hunter  went  out  through  the  kitchen  where  Lyddy  was 
making  puff-paste,  and  climbed  the  rough  open  stairs  to  the 
shed -chamber.  There  was  Bess  by  the  cobwebby  window,  at 
the  end  of  the  room,  frowning  over  packets  of  seeds. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  've  marked  these  right,"  said  she,  as 
he  approached  her.  "  This  ain't  carrot-seed." 

"  Bess  !  "  said  Hunter. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  unmoved.  Everybody  was  in  the 
habit  of  calling  her  Bess,  but  his  voice  carried  a  little  special 
appeal.  Dwight  Hunter  had  never  been  in  love.  He  had 
been  a  shy  youth  in  college,  and  since  his  lonely  living  down 
here,  he  had  had  very  little  intercourse  with  women.  Now 
he  was  moved  beyond  his  own  power  of  estimating  the  great 
ness  of  his  emotion,  and  chiefly,  in  this  new  barbaric  way, 
because  she  seemed  to  him  so  different  from  any  other  girl, 
not  only  because  he  loved  her  but  because  she  was  so  simple, 
so  innocently  bold  and  free.  A  self  deeper  than  his  conscious 
one  seemed  to  assume  that  because  his  mind  was  so  tumultu- 
ously  toward  her,  hers  must  be  as  swiftly  seeking  him. 

"  Bess  !"  he  said.  He  held  out  his  hands  to  her  in  a  boy's 
fashion.  "  Bess,  I  'm  awfully  fond  of  you." 

One  of  his  hands  touched  her  sleeve.  She  felt  it,  and  the 
blood  surged  into  her  face.  Dwight  Hunter  felt  a  stinging 
blow  on  one  cheek  and  then  the  other. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       157 

"  Find  me  the  carrot-seed,"  said  a  stern  maiden  voice. 
"  Then  you  go  down  those  stairs  and  don't  you  speak  to  me 
again." 

He  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  her.  What  temptation 
assailed  him  to  strike  down  the  woman,  bind  her  in  his  arms 
with  primal  violence,  and  walk  down  the  stairs  with  her  slung 
over  his  shoulder,  he  did  not  then  tell.  She  was  not  looking 
at  him.  She  still  sought,  with  a  cruel  patience,  among  the 
rough  seed-papers.  Suddenly  he  awoke.  He  swept  one  paper 
out  from  the  others,  with  a  motion  of  his  hand. 

"  There  's  your  carrot-seed,"  he  said,  as  if  it  were  a  blow, 
and  walked  away  through  the  length  of  the  chamber  and  down 
the  stairs. 

Bess  waited  with  the  stillness  of  a  clever  little  animal. 
Then  she  picked  up  her  carrot-seed,  and  went  quietly  down, 
and  out  to  sow  it. 


XII 

MRS.  RAMSAY,  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  was  sit 
ing  by  the  writing-table  in  her  study,  her  fretted 
brow  propped  on  one  hand  while  the  other  hand 
made  careful  notes  on  the  manuscript  page.  The  study  es 
pecially  hers  was  a  little  room  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  where 
the  sun  never  shone  through  the  one  window,  —  this  not 
only  because  it  faced  the  north,  but  for  the  pile  of  books 
and  pamphlets  on  the  sill,  and  Mrs.  Ramsay  was  never  in 
sight  of  the  day  when  she  could  pause  to  move  them  and 
have  the  window  washed.  The  table  was  scattered  all  over 
with  letters  and  reports  and  dusty  bundles  of  papers  of  an 
outworn  significance,  which  yet,  because  time  scarcely  ran  to 
it,  could  not  be  thrown  away.  Here  she  never  found  anything 
except  after  prolonged  search.  But  that  she  accepted ;  it 
suggested  no  drastic  measure  of  setting  in  order,  because 
she  had  not  been  accustomed  to  finding  things  readily  any 
where.  It  seemed  to  her  a  part  of  the  inevitable  difficulty 
of  the  world  to  steer  her  bark  through  these  thick  waters  of 
circumstance.  It  was  like  living  on  a  planet  where  there 
were  perpetual  thunder-showers,  or  one  walked  in  the  ooze 
of  marshes.  The  planet  was  simply  made  that  way,  and  the 
pilgrim  might  as  well  content  himself. 

A  figure  appeared  in  the  doorway,  but  she  did  not  heed 
it.  A  shadow  falling  on  the  page  to  which  her  earnest  mind 
was  glued  meant  only  a  call  from  the  outer  world  which 
would  make  itself  manifest,  in  some  form  of  "  view  halloo," 
if  it  really  needed  to  be  heard.  If  it  was  the  maid  of  general 
work  saying  Tiny  had  lost  her  rubbers,  the  maid  would 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       159 

get  tired  of  waiting  and,  in  a  logical  access  of  inventive  zeal, 
find  the  child  footgear  of  some  sort.  But  sometimes,  she 
was  aware,  she  had  to  listen,  and  now,  when  a  voice  hailed 
her,  she  looked  wearily  up. 

"  Mum,"  said  Tim. 

She  was  very  fond  of  him.  Something  of  the  first  bloom 
of  her  married  life  clung  to  him.  He  came  when  a  child  was 
a  wonder,  and  not  after  she  had  begun  to  think  of  them  as 
little  citizens  who  would  make  the  ship  of  state  move  more 
securely  if  their  cherished  individuality  could,  be  respected. 
He  was  still  a  child.  After  his  advent  there  was  her  stay  in 
Europe,  studying  sociology,  leaving  him  and  his  father  in 
bemused  dependence  on  each  other.  The  other  children 
came  years  after,  but  they  never  seemed  so  like  princes  of 
direct  descent:  only  a  little  alien  colony  of  the  mother  state. 

"  Are  n't  you  gone  to  bed  yet  ?  "  asked  his  mother.  "  Is  n't 
it  late  for  you  ?" 

Tim  stepped  in  and  seated  himself  on  a  pile  of  periodicals, 
tied  in  bundles  because  Mrs.  Ramsay  had  found  that  in  their 
unbound  state  they  had  been  used  for  fire-lighting  by  maids 
who  undervalued  the  printed  word. 

"  I  don't  go  to  bed  with  the  children,"  said  Tim.  "  Come 
on  out  of  here,  mum.  Come  down  into  the  nursery.  There's 
a  fire  there." 

Mrs.  Ramsay  capped  her  fountain  pen,  placed  it  upright 
in  her  bag  beside  the  table,  because  she  meant  to  take  an 
early  train,  and  rose  to  follow  him.  Tim,  too,  got  up  from 
his  pile  of  pamphlets,  and  they  toppled  after  him.  But  he 
did  not  pick  them  up  nor  did  his  mother  see  they  blocked 
the  passage  to  the  door.  To  Tim  the  room  was  predestined 
confusion  hopeless  in  a  fashion  that  nothing  but  fire  could 
better;  like  his  mother  he  was  used  to  finding  his  way  in 
labyrinths  of  her  own  making. 


160      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  Where's  your  father  ?  "  she  asked,  her  hand  on  the  gas. 
"  Run  along,  dear.  I  'm  going  to  turn  this  out." 

"Father's  gone  to  bed,"  said  Tim,  from  the  hall.  "  He 
was  done  up.  Said  old  Gregory  's  been  ugly  as  the  devil." 

"  Oh  !  "  commented  Mrs.  Ramsay,  unmoved. 

She  had  been  used  for  many  years  to  the  daily  tempera 
ture  of  old  Gregory's  mind.  He  was  her  husband's  em 
ployer,  and  it  seemed  to  her  quite  natural  that  even  a  head 
clerk  should  come  under  the  changing  sun  of  favor  or  dis 
favor.  They  went  down  the  dark  stairs  to  the  nursery  where 
Tim  had  been  keeping  up  the  fire  after  the  children  went  to 
bed,  lying  there  on  the  hearth,  his  head  almost  in  the  blaze, 
dreaming,  not  the  vague  deliciousness  of  youth,  but  weaving, 
contriving,  planning,  making  an  ignorant  child's  picture  of  a 
warm  future. 

He  had  taken  the  precaution,  before  he  left,  of  drawing  a 
big  chair  to  the  hearth  and  building  up  the  blaze,  to  beguile 
his  mother  into  staying  with  him  while  he  talked.  He  and 
even  the  little  children  knew  a  great  many  things  about  her 
that  she  was  quite  ignorant  of  herself.  They  knew  she  was 
often  so  tired  that  if  she  could  be  made  very  comfortable  — 
a  state  she  never  sought  —  she  would  stay  and  talk  to  them, 
lulled  by  her  bodily  repose.  They  seldom  wanted  it.  She 
did  not,  being  neither  very  affectionate  nor  beautiful,  seem 
to  them  a  particularly  interesting  person ;  but  for  reasons  of 
state  they  often  had  to  consult  her  in  parliamentary  form. 
So  now,  when  she  sank  into  the  chair,  it  was  with  a  little  sigh 
of  unconscious  bodily  weariness.  She  was  never  tired,  she 
told  people,  and  she  needed  little  sleep ;  but  yet  she  did 
have  periods  of  lethargy  when  she  thought  she  was  thinking. 
Timmy  knew  better.  He  knew  mother  was  done  up.  He 
took  a  chair  at  the  other  side  of  the  hearth,  because  he  wished 
to  impress  her,  and  Mary,  the  maid,  had  so  often  exhorted 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       161 

him  not  to  "sprawl  about  so,"  that  Timmy  understood 
sprawling  to  be  unlovely. 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  "do  you  know  anybody  that's  got 
any  money  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Ramsay.  "  I  don't  know  that  I 
do.  Why,  yes,  I  suppose  I  do.  A  great  many  of  our  club 
members  are  influential  women.  I  suppose  they  have  money. 
Why,  yes,  I  suppose  I  know  people  who  have  money." 

"  I  want  money,"  said  Tim,  "  the  worst  way." 

"Well,  I  dare  say  your  father  can  give  you  some,"  said 
Mrs.  Ramsay.  "How  much  do  you  need?" 

He  passed  that  over  as  the  link  he  was  not  yet  ready  to  forge. 

"You  know,  mum,"  he  said,  "  I  think  I  Ve  got  a  good 
thing.  If  I  let  you  in,  will  you  keep  still  till  I  tell  you  to 
speak?" 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  go  to  your  father?"  she 
asked  dreamily.  Her  mind  was  not  on  him.  A  delicious  sen 
sation  that  she  described  next  day  as  the  sort  of  momentwhen 
we  feel  at  one  with  life  was  stealing  over  her;  but  she  was 
really  sleepy  with  the  liberty  to  indulge  it. 

"  I  can't,"  said  Tim  decisively,  frowning  at  the  fire. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  guess  you  can.  Why  can't  you?" 

"  Father  ain't  a  practical  man.  I  've  got  to  have  practical 
men  go  in  with  me,  and  I  Ve  got  to  have  some  money  to 
keep  up  my  end." 

"  Your  language  does  n't  always  please  me,  Timmy,"  said 
his  mother,  without  severity,  conscious  of  the  warmth  of  the 
fire  on  her  knees.  "  I  am  surprised  that  a  young  man  of  your 
antecedents  and  training  should  find  the  slightest  temptation 
to  say  c  ain't." 

"The  amount  of  it  is,"  Timmy  continued,  "we  want  money. 
We  need  it,  mum.  We  need  it  mighty  bad." 

"  The  rich  man  is  not  the  man  to  be  envied,"  said  Mrs. 


1 62      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

Ramsay.  "  It  is  the  good  citizen,  the  man  who  carries  his 
wealth  in  his  heart  and  head." 

"Look  at  dad,"  said  Tim  in  dispassionate  argument.  "Did 
you  ever  see  such  a  poor  old  crow  picking  up  corn  in  the 
same  field  he  's  been  tottering  in  fora  hundred  years?  Why, 
dad  's  a  sight." 

"Your  father  is  not  an  ambitious  man." 

"Ambitious!  I  shouldn't  think  he  was.  He's  been 
squeezed  so  hard  the  blood  's  all  out  of  him.  He  ain't  am 
bitious  nor  anything  else.  He 's  got  four  kids  to  put  through 
college:  no,  three,  —  Tonty 's  only  a  girl.  She'll  probably 
marry." 

"Antoinette  will  assuredly  have  a  collegiate  course  whether 
she  is  a  girl  or  not,"  said  his  mother,  with  some  severity  due 
to  her  tenets  of  belief.  She  had  almost  concluded,  "  whether 
she  wants  it  or  not,"  because  she  knew  that,  as  a  matter  of 
principle,  Tonty  would  have  to  enter  the  world  sufficiently 
equipped. 

"Well,  Tonty  is  a  girl,"  said  Tim.  "Count  her  in  then. 
Four  kids  to  educate.  How  's  he  going  to  do  it  ?  Don't  count 
me.  I  did  n't  want  to  go  to  college,  and  I  did  n't.  I  think 
I  'm  a  polished  specimen  as  I  am,  don't  you,  mum  ?" 

"  You  seem  to  forget  that  your  mother's  lectures  are  re 
munerative,"  she  reminded  him. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know,  but  you  ain't  going  to  keep  on  batting 
round  the  way  you  do.  We  've  got  to  have  an  income." 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Mrs.  Ramsay,  with  dignity,  "that 
we  shall  always  be  able  to  live  in  a  simple  manner,  suited  to 
our  tastes,  and  that  the  children  will  be  properly  educated. 
If  you  want  a  little  money,  dear,  your  father  or  I  could  let 
you  have  it.  But  you  know  my  hope  for  you,  Timmy.  You 
know  I  am  waiting  with  the  greatest  interest,  dear,  the  great 
est  impatience,  for  you  to  decide  on  a  profession." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       163 

Tim  got  up  and  leaned  an  elbow  on  the  mantel. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  in  a  curious  tone  of  uneasiness  and  rather 
sullen  determination,  as  if  he  brought  out  something  he  could 
more  happily  have  kept  hidden,  "  I  don't  want  a  profession. 
I  ain't  fitted  for  it.  I  don't  see  how  I  could  be.  I  don't  want 
to  study,  mother.  You  know  I  can't  put  my  mind  on  things." 

"  My  dear,"  said  his  mother,  "  you  have  awell-stored  mind. 
Think  how  mother  used  to  read  to  you.  She  read  to  you  by 
the  hour." 

"Well,  what  made  you  do  it?"  said  Tim  irritably.  "I 
did  n't  want  you  to.  I  'd  much  rather  have  been  asleep.  Why 
did  n't  you  make  me  read  to  myself,  or  set  me  something 
to  learn  and  lick  me  if  I  did  n't  do  it?  You  don't  any  more 
know  how  to  bring  up  a  kid  than  you  know  how  to  fly." 

"We  shall  all  fly  some  time,"  said  Mrs.  Ramsay  sleepily. 
His  words  had  touched  some  spring  in  her  mind,  and  she  was 
responding  with  a  pin-feather  from  one  of  her  lectures.  "  We 
shall  have  our  wings." 

"  Well,  maybe  we  shall,"  said  Tim  gloomily,  "  but  some 
of  us  '11  fly  mighty  near  the  ground,  and  every  chance  we  get, 
we  '11  roost.  I  tell  you,  mum,  it 's  true,  and  you  take  it  from 
me,  I  ain't  been  brought  up  to  do  anything  whatever  unless 
I  get  some  queer  sort  of  a  soft  snap  that  '11  let  me  in  for  some 
thing  rich.  That's  so.  Believe  it?  " 

Mrs.  Ramsay  had  nodded,  and  the  jar  awoke  her.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  was  being  criticised  for  her  educational  meth 
ods,  and  she  answered,  — 

"You  could  n't  be  treated  like  other  children,  dear.  You 
were  very  individual." 

"  Well,  if  I  was  individual  then,  I  'm  individual  now,"  said 
Tim.  "  And  the  individual 's  going  to  act.  Mother,  see  here. 
I  Ve  got  an  invention.  That 's  the  head  and  tail  of  it." 

Mrs.  Ramsay  came  awake. 


1 64     JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  My  son !"  she  said.  "  You Ve invented  something?  Now, 
you  see !  you  were  n't  like  other  children,  and  if  I  had  driven 
you  along  the  old  ruts,  you  'd  have  been  in  them  now.  You 
have  had  long  fallow  times  for  thought  —  " 

"  I  Ve  been  as  lazy  as  the  devil,"  said  Tim.  "  That 's 
what  you  mean." 

"  Your  mind  has  been  seething  and  ripening,  and  now 
the  moment  has  come,  and  it  has  brought  forth  fruit.  As 
well  put  a  child  in  a  strait  waistcoat,  as  well  bandage  its  feet 
like  the  Chinese  tyrant,  as  forbid  it  the  growth  of  its  free 
intelligence." 

"  Cut  it,  mum,  cut  it,"  said  Tim,  with  a  restored  good 
nature.  "  That 's  out  of  a  lecture.  I  heard  it  one  night  when 
I  was  waiting  with  your  overshoes." 

His  spirit  was  again  rising.  He  had  taken  a  step  he 
dreaded  to  take,  and  now  it  was  done  the  rest  of  the  path 
seemed  easy.  His  dread  had  not  been  of  telling  his  mother, 
because  she,  he  knew,  was  easily  approached,  but  the  first 
move  seemed  the  difficult  one.  He  was  not  used  to  action. 
His  long  courses  of  dreaming  over  the  financially  possible 
involved  nothing  for  himself  but  the  tacking  on  a  second 
dream  when  the  first  palled.  Now  he  was  to  do. 

"  But,"  said  he,  "  money  's  the  thing.  Money  's  what 
I  Ve  got  to  have." 

"  To  get  your  patent,"  she  supplied. 

"  No,  not  precisely.  That  '11  be  easy  enough.  I  could  get 
that  out  of  dad.  Tell  him  I  Ve  got  to  have  some  clothes. 
Show  him  my  shoes.  They'd  be  enough." 

"  That  is  ever  the  way,"  saio  Mrs.  Ramsay  fondly.  "  The 
inventor  barters  everything  tor  his  dream.  Think  of  Ben- 
venuto  Cellini,  think  of  the  pottery  man.  I  [can't  at  this 
minute  recall  his  name — " 

"  Don't  go  harking  back  to  those  Johnnies,"  said  Tim 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       165 

sunnily.  "  They  're  dead  and  buried.  You  think  of  your 
little  flaxen-haired,  blue-eyed  boy  Timothy,  and  see  what 
you  can  do  for  him.  Who's  got  money,  mum  ?  Who'll 
shell  out?" 

"How  much  does  it  cost  to  get  a  patent,  child?  " 

"  Never  you  mind.  That 's  only  the  first  step.  We  've 
got  to  manufacture.  We  've  got  to  form  a  company." 

Mrs.  Ramsay  brooded. 

"  Strange,"  she  said,  in  her  deep  tone,  "  when  a  human 
exigency  like  this  arises,  how  precious  money  is.  Take  the 
individual,  the  scholar,  —  he  can  scorn  it.  James  Trenton 
Lovell  could  receive  a  legacy  and  cast  it  behind  him  —  " 

Tim  stood  up  straight,  as  if  the  words  had  given  him  a 
shock. 

"  Cast  it  behind  him  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Where  'd  he  cast  it  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  We  none  of  us  know,"  she  responded.  "  We  only  know 
James  was  given  a  legacy,  and  that  he  refused  it." 

"  The  ass  !  "  Tim  contributed.  "  The  old  moth-eaten 
hermit  of  an  ass.  What  'd  he  do  that  for  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  he  did  n't  do  it."  Mrs.  Ramsay  rose  and  stood 
closer  to  the  fire,  looking  at  it  lovingly.  She  would  have 
said,  if  her  mental  photograph  had  been  demanded,  that  she 
was  of  an  ascetic  habit,  but  warmth  and  food  and  right  in 
dulgences  had  a  soft  appealing  for  her,  not  to  be  recognized, 
but  ascribed  to  the  general  beneficence  of  the  universe  and 
its  effect  on  her  spiritual  state.  "  Don't  speak  uncharitably, 
dear.  If  James  did  refuse  it,  it  was  from  the  highest  mo 
tives.  We  can  be  sure  of  that." 

Tim  had  forgotten  her.  He  stood  on  his  side  of  the  fire 
place,  looking  at  the  coals  and  wondering  how  he  should 
have  allowed  himself  to  pass  over  Lovell's  reputed  fortune. 
He  had  heard  about  it.  Talk  had  buzzed  vaguely  all  round 


1 66      JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

it,  but  nobody  had  found  out  what  it  was,  and  after  the  first 
wonder,  the  town  had  gone  to  sleep  again,  according  to  its 
wont. 

"I  'm  going  over  to  see  him." 

Mrs.  Ramsay  was  turning  away  to  her  chamber. 

"  To  see  James  Lovell  ? "  she  repeated,  with  her  uncon- 
sidered  mildness.  "  Not  to-night,  dear.  It 's  very  late." 

"He  sits  up  till  all  hours."  Tim  was  seeking  out  his  hat 
from  a  pile  of  unassorted  headgear  on  the  hall  table.  "  Don't 
fasten  up,  mum.  I  '11  be  in  some  time." 

He  banged  the  front  door  after  him,  and  she  heard  him 
plunging  away.  She  stopped  to  put  out  the  hall  lamp. 

"  Mother,"  said  a  little  voice  above  her,  and  she  looked 
up. 

Tonty  stood  in  the  hall,  looking  over  the  rail.  She  was 
in  her  nightgown,  and  sleep  still  creased  and  flushed  her 
little  anxious  face. 

"What  is  it,  dear ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Ramsay,  ascending 
heavily. 

"  I  heard  something,"  said  Tonty,  in  a  voice  subdued  to 
the  hour. 

The  three  others,  younger  than  she,  would  wake  pre 
sently  to  a  less  controlled  alarm,  and  it  would  be  her  task 
to  comfort  them. 

"  It  was  only  your  brother  going  out  to  make  a  call,"  said 
Mrs.  Ramsay. 

She  was  proceeding  to  her  own  room  and  Tonty  followed 
after,  in  a  perfect  self-possession,  yet  trembling  with  her 
fear  and  the  cool  of  the  night  air. 

"Then  it's  daytime,  is  n't  it?"  she  inquired,  with  an  in 
credulous  hope.  "  No,  it  must  be  evening.  Do  you  think 
he  's  going  to  see  Jackie  ? " 

Who  Jackie  was,  Mrs.  Ramsay  had  never  learned,  but 


JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       167 

it  was  one  of  her  tenets  that  childhood  must  not  be  de 
ceived.  No  chimney  in  her  house  had  ever  warmed  to  the 
descent  of  Santa  Claus,  no  brownie  had  ever  swept  her 
floor,  nor  fairy  godmother  brought  gifts.  None  of  these 
things  had  happened  with  her  knowledge,  though  unknown 
worlds  thrilled  about  her  and  beat  at  the  doors  of  her  sleep 
ing  apprehension.  And  children  must  be  told  the  truth 
exactly. 

"  He  has  gone  to  call  on  James  Lovell,"  she  replied. 
"  Run  along  now  and  get  into  bed.  Don't  wake  the  others." 

Tonty  went  obediently,  and  was  over  her  sill ;  but  at  the 
dusky  cavern  of  the  room  she  hesitated  and  fled  back  again, 
with  a  soft  thud  of  feet.  Her  hands  almost  laid  hold  of  her 
mother's  dress,  but  not  quite. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  "  mother." 

"  Well,  dear?  "  asked  her  mother,  looking  benignly  down 
at  her.  "  What  is  it  ?  Mother 's  waiting  for  you  to  go  back  to 
bed." 

"You  couldn't  —  "  Tonty's  breath  seemed  to  fail  her, 
and  she  added  weakly  —  "  you  could  n't  stand  here  and  talk 
a  minute,  could  you  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Ramsay  kindly.  "  It 's  very  late 
for  little  girls.  It 's  late  for  mother,  too.  Run  along  now, 
and  let  mother  see  you  shut  the  door." 

Tonty  went  quickly,  because  that  was  the  easiest  way  to 
do  it.  She  got  inside  the  chamber,  and  pulled  the  door  softly 
to.  That  shut  her  inside  the  blackness.  She  felt  her  way  to 
the  bed,  and  put  her  hand  by  chance  on  Tiny's  face,  and 
then  she  might  have  screamed  if  that  would  not  have  waked 
three  sleeping  creatures  who  would  all  have  wanted  water. 
But  how  did  she  know  it  was  Tiny's  face  ?  She  had  left 
Tiny  in  the  bed  when  she  heard  the  noise  downstairs,  but 
that  was  a  long  time  ago,  and  many  things  in  the  history  of 


1 68      JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

so  dark  a  chamber  might  have  happened  since.  She  knelt 
by  the  bed,  and  prayed  :  "  Please  let  it  be  Tiny."  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  prayed  a  long  time,  and  it  did  no  good  be 
cause  there  was  no  sign  that  it  was  Tiny,  and  it  was  impossi 
ble  to  get  into  bed  until  she  had  assurance.  But  she  put  her 
head  on  the  bedside  and  then  in  an  instant  found  she  was 
saying, "  Dear  Jackie,  let  it  be  Tiny  "  ;  and  immediately  she 
was  so  sure  it  was,  that  she  could  get  up  and  slip  into  bed 
and  seek  Tiny's  little  curled-up  hand. 


XIII 

TIM  made  haste  to  Lo veil's  door  because,  although 
Lovell  was  accustomed  to  sit  up  to  all  hours,  this 
was  midnight  and  beyond.  The  light  was  burning 
in  his  little  house,  and  Tim,  before  making  himself  known, 
stepped  up  to  the  window  with  no  attempt  at  caution,  and 
looked  in.  There  was  a  fire  across  the  shining  andirons,  and 
a  man  sat  on  the  straight  old-fashioned  sofa  along  the  wall 
opposite,  watching  the  blaze.  Tim  frowned  at  the  sight,  be 
cause  this,  seeming  to  be  a  visitor,  made  his  coming  futile; 
but  he  paused  and  looked  again,  and  when  the  man  stirred, 
with  a  familiar  motion,  Tim  laughed  out.  At  that  the  sitting 
figure  started  and  turned  to  face  him  there  unseen.  Tim  went 
to  the  door  now,  opened  it,  and  walked  in.  It  was  Lovell 
himself  sitting  on  the  sofa  and  regarding  him  with  a  stead 
fast,  unwelcoming  look,  apparently  demanding  why  his  soli 
tude  should  be  disturbed, —  Lovell  in  fine  new  clothes.  Tim 
went  gravely  to  the  mantel,  took  down  a  candle,  lighted  it, 
and  walked  over  to  the  sofa.  There,  holding  the  candle  at 
convenient  points,  he  eyed  Lovell  up  and  down  from  the  top 
of  his  clipped  head  to  his  obviously  new  shoes.  Lovell  met 
his  gaze  in  an  unmoved  calm,  as  if  it  might  prove  a  small 
relief  to  be  pronounced  upon.  Tim  returned  the  candle  to 
its  place,  and  took  his  host's  own  accustomed  chair  at  the 
hearth. 

"  Behold,"  said  he,  in  a  pleasant  tone,  "  the  bridegroom 
cometh." 

Lovell  got  up,  threw  a  log  on  the  fire,  and  wiped  his  hands 
from  the  powdery  dust  of  the  bark  ;  he  wiped  them  on  his 


1 7o      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

impeccable  trousers.  There  was  a  freedom  of  motion  in  the 
act,  indicating  a  purpose.  He  might  possibly,  it  seemed,  find 
more  familiarity  in  the  clothes  which  he  was  now  regarding 
with  a  mixture  of  rage  and  anxiety  when  they  looked  as  if 
they  had  been  worn.  Tim,  with  an  elfin  intelligence,  read 
him  clearly. 

"  Your  trousers,  Jim,"  he  said,  from  an  admiring  solem 
nity,  "  are  a  dream,  simply  a  dream." 

Lovell  seemed  to  glance  at  them,  but  a  dogged  something 
within  him  told  of  relief.  He  would  need  all  the  dreamlike 
garments  he  could  get  to  drag  him  back  to  life  long  enough 
to  accomplish  one  foolish  but  inevitable  purpose. 

"  You  ain't  dressed  for  the  part,"  Tim  vouchsafed. 

"  What  part  ?  " 

"  Hermit." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool.  I  never  called  myself  a  hermit." 

"  Nor  poet,"  said  Tim  slyly. 

"  Nor  poet,  either." 

"  Well,  you  're  all  right,  all  right.  You  're  just  the  same 
kind  of  a  Johnnie  everybody  else  is  — except  me.  I  couldn't 
sport  such  a  cravat  nor  such  a  coat  at  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning  nor  any  old  time,  not  if  you  were  to  draw  me  on  a 
jury  and  tell  me  this  was  the  uniform.  You  're  elegant,  Jim, 
just  elegant." 

"I'm  a  fool,"  said  Lovell,  going  back  to  his  position  on 
the  sofa.  "Take  it  from  me  —  a  fool." 

But  he  looked  a  very  handsome  fellow  sitting  there  at  his 
frowning  ease,  and  Tim,  while  he  conquered  an  inclination 
to  laugh,  generously  conceded  it.  Again  his  impish  intelli 
gence  told  him  Lovell  was  forswearing  his  old  lounging-chair 
and  taking  to  the  sofa  to  practise  sitting  on  sofas  at  afternoon 
calls.  He  had  a  deliriously  happy  vision  of  a  "  Book  of 
Beauty  "  he  had  seen  in  his  mother's  attic,  where  a  young 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S    FAMILY      171 

lady  of  the  early  sixties  sat  winding  wool  from  the  hands  of 
a  slim-waisted  gentleman  of  the  same  period;  and  a  wild  im 
pulse  assailed  him  to  ask  Lovell  if  they  should  practise  wind 
ing  yarn.  But  this  unconsidered  tableau,  he  thought,  spoke 
ill  for  his  own  hopes.  It  was  a  simple  matter  to  mulct  a  her 
mit  of  despised  gold,  but  not  a  man  equipped  for  conquest. 

"  Going  to  book,  Jim  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Book  ?  " 

"  For  the  race.   Play  the  game,  vote,  call  on  girls  —  " 

Lovell  frowned  at  that,  and  then  settled  into  his  obstinate 
calm.  Timothy  knew  then.  The  two  girls  at  the  Winter- 
bournes'  were  at  the  bottom  of  it.  If  he  were  ever  to  find  any 
trace  of  the  old  Lovell,  the  poet,  the  student,  the  scorner  of 
pomps,  it  was  time  to  do  it  now. 

"  Got  any  money,  Jim?"  he  asked. 

"How  much  do  you  want?"  Lovell  made  an  instinctive 
dive  into  his  empty  pockets. 

"  I  can  put  you  on  to  a  good  thing." 

"  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  I  'm  going  to  bed,"  said  Lovell.  The 
warmth  of  his  first  hour  alone  there  opposite  the  fire  with 
that  new  energy  assailing  him  had  gone.  "  Sit  here  as  long 
as  you  like,  only  see  the  door's  tight  when  you  go." 

"  I  'm  not  fooling,"  Tim  asserted.  "  I  know  of  a  company 
that's  going  to  be  formed,  and  dad  hasn't  a  nickel  to  put 
into  it.  Say,  you  've  got  money  !  " 

Lovell  turned  upon  him. 

"Have  I,  indeed?"  he  demanded.  "Who  says  so?" 

"All  of 'em.  They  say  you've  got  it,  or  had  it.  If  you 
have  n't  made  ducks  and  drakes  with  it,  chucked  it  down  a 
hollow  tree  or  something,  you  give  it  to  me.  I  don't  mean 
give  it  to  me.  Put  it  into  the  company  —  many  shares  as  you 
want." 

"  I  don't  want  any  shares,"  said  Lovell. 


172      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

He  was  standing,  looking  absently  into  the  fire.  How 
should  he  tell  his  paper  and  pencil  that  night  what  he  saw 
there  —  what  flaring  winds  of  passion,  what  castles  and  the 
shapes  of  leaves  P  "  What 's  your  company  ?  " 

"I  won't  tell  you  —  not  unless  you  promise  you'll  think 
of  going  in  with  me.  If  you'll  do  that,  maybe  I  will." 

Lovell  shook  his  head. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  no.  I  don't  know  anything  about  your 
companies  and  your  shares.  Come,  let 's  get  to  bed.  I  don't 
want  to  turn  you  out — " 

Tim  picked  up  his  hat  and  went,  begging  to  the  last,  and 
Lovell,  shutting  the  door  on  him  with  small  ceremony,  took 
the  lamp  and  went  into  his  bedroom.  It  had  a  good-sized 
mirror,  taken  from  the  big  house  because  the  poet  side  of 
him  loved  sumptuous  things  and  the  gilt  scroll-work  on  it 
pleased  him.  He  stood  before  it,  lamp  in  hand,  and  looked 
at  himself,  frowning  a  little  with  the  intentness  of  the  scru 
tiny.  What  he  saw  pleased  him  but  moderately,  —  a  man  of 
good  size  and  bearing,  with  a  square  forehead,  very  direct 
gray-blue  eyes,  and  a  firm  enough  mouth  with  diversifying 
curves  in  it.  The  mouth  was  odious  to  him  because  his  mem 
ories  of  what  his  mother  and  sister  used  to  say  of  it  were 
still  so  disconcerting.  "James  has  a  beautiful  mouth,"  he 
heard  his  mother  remark,  fondly  contemplating  his  photo 
graph,  which  she  insisted  on  keeping  on  the  centre  table 
propped  against  the  astral  lamp.  She  never  looked  at  him 
when  she  said  it,  and  James,  with  a  sense  that  the  mouth  was 
something  that  was  his  and  yet  not  his,  used  to  writhe  in 
his  chair  under  the  feeling  that  the  idea  had  become  so  im 
personal  to  her  that  she  might  offer  it  at  any  time,  in  any 
company. 

"  Beautiful !  "  his  sister  would  dutifully  respond,  because 
the  rule  of  the  house  was  that  mother,  because  she  was  mother 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       173 

and  had  a  stiff  knee,  must  be  indulged.  Lovell  thought  that 
had  got  him  into  his  habit  of  biting  his  lips,  a  vice  he  pursued 
until  his  mother  noted  it  and  watched  him  for  its  recurrence, 
saying  at  each  downfall,  "  Don't  do  that,  my  son.  You  have 
a  beautiful  mouth." 

Well,  he  thought,  the  mouth  was  there.  It  was  sufficiently 
firm,  even  after  all  it  had  gone  through.  It  was  well  enough. 
The  chin  was  finely  cut,  and  he  elected  to  pay  no  attention 
to  the  dimple  in  it.  What  he  chiefly  wished  to  see  was  whether 
he  looked  in  the  main  no  worse,  if  no  better,  than  other  fel 
lows  who  might  not  have  had  his  own  tawdry  experience.  The 
lamp  gave  him  no  ecstatic  assurance,  but  it  offered  no  facers, 
and  he  went  to  bed,  to  forget  himself  and  what  he  was  pretty 
sure  was  going  to  be  the  morrow's  foolish  deed. 

But  the  next  afternoon  it  was  without  thinking  much  about 
it,  except  as  an  act  already  determined  upon,  that,  in  all  the 
austerity  of  his  conventional  gear,  he  went  up  to  the  Win- 
terbournes'  and  knocked.  He  had  been  used  to  walking  in, 
after  the  familiar  custom  of  the  town,  for  his  lost  evenings 
with  Winterbourne  and  the  Greeks;  but  those  were  behind 
him.  He  never  hoped  for  them  again,  and  saw  before  him 
the  exacting  call  of  a  new  relation  miserably  veiled,  as  yet,  in 
doubt. 

Lyddy  came  limping  to  the  door,  and  stared  at  him  with 
a  frank  surprise.  Perhaps  if  he  had  not  looked  her  in  the 
eye  and  asked  somewhat  more  severely  than  anything  save  a 
wavering  will,  giving  itself  even  the  advantage  of  a  truculent 
port,  might  have  counselled,  she  would  have  frankly  told  him 
how  he  seemed  to  her  in  his  new  clothes.  But  she  informed 
him  in  detail  where  all  the  family  might  be  found.  Mr.  Win 
terbourne  and  Bess — she  made  no  halt  at  her  familiar  name 
—  were  studying  in  the  sitting-room,  Mrs.  Winterbourne 
had  gone  to  town  with  that  Mrs.  Ramsay,  and  Miss  Celia  was 


i74      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

in  the  garden.  Lovell  hesitated  before  her,  and  she  divined 
him. 

"  You  can  go  out  this  way,  if  you  want,"  she  said,  her 
gleaming  eye  on  his.  "  She  's  the  only  one  that  ain't  busy." 

So  Lovell  went  through  the  kitchen  and  down  the  steps 
of  the  back  door  and  came  upon  Celia  pacing  dreamily  in  the 
spring  air,  between  rows  of  budding  green.  The  garden,  like 
all  the  Winterbourne  estate,  had  suffered  in  the  desertion  of 
the  owner,  and  he  had  not  yet  haled  this  flowery  patch  back 
to  an  assured  prosperity.  Bess  had  been  digging  about  some 
of  the  perennials,  and  Hunter,  seeing  her,  had  brought  his 
hoe  and  gone  into  the  business  of  liberation,  to  please  her. 
Finding  him  at  work,  she  had  given  no  sign  of  gratitude  or 
even  interest,  but  he  was  pleased  to  note  that  her  own  frag 
mentary  toil  went  on  there  in  early  mornings  before  he  came. 
She  it  was  who  had  decreed  the  sowing  of  lawn-grass  near  the 
house,  where  Winterbourne  had  elected  to  raise  carrots.  Win 
terbourne  had  come  out  one  morning  and  found  Hunter  sow 
ing  grass. 

"  You  told  me  the  carrots  were  all  in,"  the  master  said, 
with  dark  suspicion. 

Hunter  kept  on  with  his  accurate  wave  and  toss  of  the  seed. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "This  is  grass-seed." 

Winterbourne  felt  one  of  his  rages  coming  on,  but  at  that 
moment  Bess  walked  around  the  corner  of  the  house.  He 
appealed  to  her :  — 

"Will  you  listen  to  this?  I  tell  this  fellow  to  put  in  car 


rots— 


But  Bess  came  up  to  him.  Her  hair  was  blowing,  and  the 
light  of  day  was  in  her  eyes. 

"Why,  yes,"  said  she,  "  course  you  Ve  got  to  have  grass- 
seed  up  here  by  the  house.  I  told  him  so.  You  can't  plant 
carrots  round  your  rock-o'-door." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       175 

That  was  an  old  term  for  the  doorstep.  Lyddy  made  a 
commonplace  of  it,  and  Winterbourne  loved  the  girl  for  us 
ing  it  in  the  manner  of  the  soil.  He  looked  at  her  a  moment, 
broadly  smiling,  and  she  smiled  back,  in  no  community  of 
understanding  mirth,  but  because  she  approved  of  him. 
So  the  lawn  was  sown,  and  Winterbourne  rejoiced  in  his 
defeat. 

Celia  had  no  inborn  taste  for  gardens :  but  this  one,  en 
closed  in  its  high  fence,  gave  space  for  solitary  musing,  and 
she  wandered  up  and  down,  looking  the  sweetest  of  lone 
maidens,  but  brooding  practically  on  ways  and  means.  Lov- 
ell,  a  little  dashed  because  she  did  not  know  him,  went  to 
ward  her  fast,  and  suddenly  she  did  place  him,  and  held  out 
her  hand. 

"  How  good  of  you  to  find  me,"  she  said.  "  I  might  have 
missed  you." 

Lovell  had  perhaps  not  himself  realized  how  deeply  in 
earnest  he  was.  He  kept  her  hand  a  moment  and  threw  it 
away  from  him  with  a  little  fling,  as  if  he  abjured  all  the  helps 
to  courage.  But  after  all,  what  had  he  to  say  to  her  ?  Could 
he  begin,  "  I  have  chosen  to  confess  to  you,  because  you  are 
a  beautiful  young  woman  and  I  am  afraid  you  will  not  be 
pleased"?  ' 

"  It  is  so  warm,"  Celia  was  saying,  in  a  clear  voice  tuned 
to  his  insufficient  hearing. 

She  looked  at  him  with  large  and  reflective  eyes,  thinking, 
in  the  undercurrent  that  went  on  in  her  now  all  the  time,  that 
here  was  a  unit  of  the  millions  more  fortunate  than  she  and 
bound  to  serve  her  if  she  could  but  combine  them  rightly, 
knowing  he  was  predisposed  toward  her  and  wondering  how 
she  might  take  the  best  advantage  of  the  moment.  The  be 
ginning  was  to  talk  to  him.  "  Come  down  into  the  grape 
arbor,"  she  said.  "  I  Ve  been  sitting  there." 


176      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

He  followed  her,  his  throat  dry  with  indignation  against 
himself  for  walking  into  a  corner  where  he  must  needs  ap 
pear  like  a  fool  to  get  out  again.  In  the  arbor  she  sank  into 
one  of  the  wicker  chairs,  looked  at  him  with  her  pleasant 
smile,  which  was  yet  not  warm,  and  waited.  He  took  in  her 
look,  like  a  picture  hung  before  him,  the  slenderness  of  her, 
the  pretty  dress  with  its  light  green  stripe  and  the  green  rib 
bon  at  her  waist,  the  warmth  of  her  hair,  and  the  pure  out 
line  of  her  cheek.  He  felt  dizzily  for  a  moment  that  he  did 
not  know  whether  he  had  spoken  or  not,  and  then  said,  in 
what  instantly  sounded  to  him  like  a  voice  too  rough, — 
,  "You  don't  know  me.'* 

Celia  was  still  looking  at  him  with  that  cool,  clear  smile. 

"  I  know  you  are  a  poet/'  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  and 
asked  herself  inwardly,  in  that  unconscious  way  she  had  of 
referring  all  her  words  and  acts  to  a  standard  of  aesthetic  mean 
ing,  whether  the  tone  had  been  thrilling  enough  to  fit  that 
word. 

He  made  a  slight  outward  motion  of  the  hands,  as  if  all 
that  he  cast  to  the  abyss  of  unconsidered  things  where  tal 
ents,  genius  even,  might  lie  while  he  sought  the  mere  basis 
for  human  living. 

"Don't  say  that,"  he  adjured  her.  "Has  anybody  told 
you  anything  about  me?" 

Immediately  that  seemed  to  him  asinine,  because  there 
was  no  reason  why  anybody  should  have  spoken  of  him. 
But  she  was  smiling  at  him  in  a  bewildering  way  and  assur 
ing  him  that  they  had.  All  the  time  she  was  wondering,  in 
a  disengaged  inner  chamber  of  her  brain,  what  he  had  done 
with  the  money  they  said  he  threw  away.  It  seemed  the 
height  of  folly  or  the  top  of  splendor  to  throw  away  money 
Bess  could  use  to  such  advantage. 

"  I  could  understand,"  she  told  him.  "  I  understand  per- 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      177 

fectly.  That 's  exactly  how  a  poet  would  feel.  I  'm  awfully 
proud  of  myself  because  I  could  partly  understand." 

He  stared  at  her  in  an  unbelieving  gratitude.  She  must 
mean,  he  knew,  that  old  plague  spot  in  his  life,  the  young 
folly  that  had  helped  bewilder  his  mother's  days,  and  had 
bound  his  sister  to  him  in  a  passionate  desire  to  make  up 
to  him  for  the  world's  odium.  The  money  he  was  said  to 
have  abjured  was  as  far  from  his  thought  as  any  other  in 
considerable  thing  that  might  have  plagued  him,  for  a  mo 
ment,  to  be  forgotten.  But  here,  it  seemed,  was  the  most 
delicate  spirit  of  the  spring  bringing  its  own  gentlest  fra 
grant  air  to  blow  about  his  past  and  make  all  well. 

"  That 's  not  all,"  he  said.  "  Those  things  —  that  thing  — 
is  past  and  gone.  It's  an  infernal  folly  I  came  to  talk  to 
you  about  —  about  my  being  deaf.  I  'm  not  deaf." 

She  was  staring  at  him  in  a  sweet  confusion.  It  was 
Celia's  endowment  that,  whatever  seemed  desirable  to  feel, 
she  could  really  compass  for  the  moment. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  in  a  maiden  shame  that  implied  the 
memory  of  the  admiring  comment  she  had  thrown  out  that 
other  day. 

He  did  not  make  the  least  pretence  at  not  remembering. 

"  I  heard  it,"  he  said.  He  was  rather  pale  now,  and 
looking  directly  at  her.  "  That 's  why  I  came.  When  you 
said  it,  I  felt  like  a  fool.  But  I  thought  I  'd  better  tell  you. 
I  wanted  to  be  an  honest  fool,  at  least." 

She  sat  looking  at  him  with  her  air  of  restrained  emotion, 
really  wondering  what  he  would  like  her  to  say.  She  had 
divined  the  spring  of  humor  in  him,  and  suddenly  her  face 
crinkled  into  laughter.  She  stretched  out  both  hands  to 
him,  not,  he  found  at  once  when  he  put  out  his  own  to 
take  them,  in  more  than  a  spontaneous  gesture  of  her  own, 
having  nothing  to  do  with  him.  But  as  she  withdrew  them 


1 78      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

before  his  hands  could  meet  them,  there  seemed  to  be  no 
thing  incomplete  in  the  action  but,  on  the  contrary,  some 
thing  very  pretty. 

"  It 's  so  funny !  "  she  murmured.  "  Is  n't  it  funny  to 
you  ?  What  made  you  do  it  ?  " 

His  face  relaxed,  but  rather  grimly. 

"  I  did  n't  do  it  to  be  funny/'  he  said  briefly.  "  I  can't 
explain  it  to  you.  But  I  'd  got  mortal  tired  of  talking.  That 
seemed  to  be  one  way  of  getting  out  of  it." 

"  But  aren't  you  tired  any  more  ?  Are  you  willing  to  talk 

3  » 
now  r 

Her  charming  face,  still  creased  into  mirth,  was  set  upon 
him  with  its  divided  beauty  of  wistful  eyes  and  smiling 
lips.  Now  he  was  openly  answering  the  smile. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  particularly  want  to  talk,"  he 
owned,  seeking  through  his  inner  store  of  reasons.  "  But  I 
look  mighty  foolish  to  myself  for  hatching  it  up." 

"  I  wonder  why,"  she  reflected.  She  was  sitting  now, 
hands  clasped  over  her  knees,  looking  at  him  musingly. 

"  Well,  you  're  a  new  person,"  said  Lovell,  selecting  the 
outside  of  such  reasons  as  he  found.  "  You  've  come  in 
here  and  brought  your  verdicts  with  you.  You  turned  a 
light  on  me.  I  look  like  a  fool,  that 's  all  I  know." 

"  Oh,  not  a  fool,"  she  hastened,  "  a  poet." 

At  that  he  frowned,  and  she  knew  at  once  she  was  snap 
ping  that  string  too  boldly.  Her  face  broke  up  again  into 
smiling. 

"It's  funny,"  she  declared.  "It's  awfully  funny.  Don't 
be  sorry  you  did  it.  I  wouldn't  have  missed  it  for  the 
world." 

"Don't  be  sorry  I've  been  deaf?"  he  said  good-hu- 
moredly,  getting  on  his  feet,  and  looking  down  at  her. 
"  Well,  I  '11  try  not.  Only  you  can  remember  I  'm  not  deaf 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       179 

any  more.    I  've  got  back  my  hearing.    That 's  what  old 
Mrs.  Staples  said  when  Winterbourne  sent  her  a  trumpet." 

"How  did  he  send  her  a  trumpet?  Sit  down  and  tell 
me/' 

That  was  a  new  pretext  for  keeping  him.  But  Lovell 
did  not  sit  down.  He  walked  a  few  steps  through  the  arbor 
and  broke  off  a  twig.  With  this  in  his  hand,  to  snap  again 
into  infinitesimal  lengths,  he  felt  more  at  ease.  He  had  ner 
vous  hands  that  communicated  their  needs  swiftly  to  his 
brain. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  exactly  how  it  was.  Only  she  came 
here  —  no,  her  daughter  came  a  while  ago  and  demanded 
an  ear-trumpet.  He  happened  to  have  one  on  hand;  so  he 
gave  it  to  her." 

"  What  a  curious  thing  to  have  on  hand !  You  speak  as 
if  it  were  a  pencil  or  a  piece  of  soap  !  " 

"  It  is  curious,  but  that 's  the  way  it  was." 

She  was  looking  up  at  him,  her  face  brimming  over,  and 
before  knowing  what  brought  its  accession  of  mirth,  he 
smiled  back  at  it. 

"  You  could  say  he  happened  to  have  another  ear-trumpet 
round,"  she  hinted,  "  or  a  sovereign  remedy  for  ears,  and 
that 's  what  cured  you.  That's  why  you  aren't  hard  of  hear 
ing  any  more." 

He  started. 

"My  king !  "  said  he.  "  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  I  've  got 
to  stop  being  deaf?  " 

"  But  you  've  confessed  it.  So  you  're  not  deaf,  are 
you?" 

He  shook  his  head  in  a  droll  bewilderment. 

"  I  never  thought  it  was  going  to  let  me  out  of  the  advan 
tage  I'd  gained.   If  I  had  —  " 
.   "  You  would  n't  have  done  it  ? "  she  challenged  him. 


i8o      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

[    "  I  should  have  thought  twice." 

"Well !  "  Instantly  she  sobered  into  a  sympathetic  tender 
ness,  and  Lovell  felt  small  and  young.  "  It  would  be  a  shame 
to  take  it  away  now  you've  got  used  to  it.  I  '11  tell  you  what 
we  '11  do.  You  shall  be  deaf  to  all  the  rest  and  not  to  me." 

It  was  said  with  an  air  of  bright  discovery,  and  Lovell  al 
most  shouted,  he  was  so  pleased  with  it. 

"  That 's  exactly  it,"  he  assured  her.  "  That 's  what  I  should 
like  above  all.  So  you  see  it 's  brought  me  luck." 

"What  luck?" 

"  Why,  we  've  got  a  secret  together.  Maybe  you  don't  call 
that  luck.  I  do."  He  sobered,  and  his  voice  showed  softened 
recollection.  "It 's  brought  me  luck  before  this." 

"What,  Mr.  Lovell?" 

"Well,  it  brought  Winterbourne.  He  heard  I  was  deaf, 
and  what  does  the  old  dog  do  but  bring  me  down  a  trumpet, 
the  twin  to  old  Mrs.  Staples's.  When  I  saw  him  and  his  hon 
est  phiz  and  the  trumpet  in  his  hand  — well,  I  laughed,  but 
I  could  have  cried.  But  I  asked  him  in,  and  we  had  it  out 
together,  and  you  might  have  heard  him  roar  from  here  to 
Dixie."  He  paused  there,  looked  reflective,  then  looked  fool 
ish,  and  added,  "  He  left  the  trumpet  though —  and  to-day 
I  brought  it  back." 

"To-day?  now  ?  You  have  n't  it  with  you?" 

He  nodded  and  took  out  pan-pipes  from  his  pocket,  the 
innocent-looking  little  wonder-worker  that  to-day  everybody 
knows  the  outline  of.  Celia  put  out  her  hand  for  it,  regarded 
it  curiously,  and  set  it  to  her  ear. 

"No,"  said  Lovell,  "it 's  not  for  you." 

But  he  gazed  at  her  with  a  keen  regard,  tenderly  even,  and 
wished  he  had  some  artist's  immortal  presentment  of  her  as 
she  looked  then,  like  youth  or  beauty  holding  the  shell  to 
her  ear,  listening  to — what?  Time,  perhaps,  the  presage  of 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       181 

eternity.  But  when  the  delicate  pose  had  lasted  long  enough, 
she  was  looking  at  him,  at  last,  and  smiling. 

"  Could  you  hear  the  grass  grow?"  he  asked  her. 

"Almost." 

"  I  'm  going  to  let  you  laugh  at  me  again,"  said  Lovell. 
"I  'm  so  unused  to  making  calls,  I  wanted  a  reason.  I  took 
the  trumpet.  I  thought  if  I  found  you  all  together  I  'd  make 
that  the  pretence.  But  if  I  found  you  alone  I  should  just 
offer  my  confession  and  be  absolved." 

"And  what  shall  I  do  with  the  trumpet?"  She  was  look 
ing  at  it  drolly  now,  as  if  such  helps  to  living  were  jokes  to 
her  immortal  youth.  "  Keep  it  to  hear  the  grass  grow  ?  " 

"  Give  it  to  Winterbourne,  if  you  will,  and  see  he  puts  it 
away.  It 's  too  valuable  to  be  left  lying  round." 

Celia  came  to  her  feet,  because  she  saw  he  was  really  going. 
Besides  she  felt  him  to  be  cleverer  than  she,  and  the  inter 
view  was,  she  felt,  being  left  at  precisely  the  right  point. 

"  Well,  we  Ve  got  our  secret,"  she  said  brightly.  "  It  makes 
me  feel  about  five." 

Lovell  shook  his  head. 

"  I  feel  more  than  five,"  he  told  her.  "  Sometimes  I  feel 
about  seventy-five.  But  I  don't  object  to  a  secret.  Listen. 
I  'm  going  to  prove  to  you  that  I  'm  not  deaf." 

"  But  you  told  me." 

"I  'm  going  to  prove  it.  I  '11  tell  you  what  is  going  to 
happen  in  a  minute.  Your  sister  has  run  up  into  the  shed- 
chamber.  I  heard  her  speak  to  Lyddy,  and  then  step  on  that 
first  creaking  stair.  Winterbourne  is  coming.  I  smell  his  to 
bacco.  Tim  Ramsay  is  coming  in  through  your  side  gate.  I 
heard  him  shoo  the  cat.  Now  I  'm  off.  Good-by." 

He  looked  about  him,  evidently  for  a  way  of  escape  that 
should  not  bring  him  face  to  face  with  the  incursion  he  had 
foretold,  saw  the  clear  place  in  the  fence  where  the  grapevine 


1 82      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

had  not  found  the  top,  and,  regardless  of  new  clothes,  went 
over.  Celia,  remembering  his  face  as  it  had  smiled  upon 
her,  decided  that  he  did  more  than  refrain  from  objecting  to 
a  secret.  He  liked  it  very  much. 

Winterbourne,  true  to  prophecy,  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
smoking  his  pipe. 

"  O  papa,"  Celia  called  to  him,  "  here's  your  ear-trumpet." 


XIV 

WINTERBOURNE  advanced,  smiling  wryly,  and 
Tim,  who  had  followed  him  through  the  dining- 
room,  came  on  behind. 

"  I  begin  to  think,"  said  Winterbourne, "  that  if  I  opened 
the  almanac  at  random,  I  should  find  in  the  margin,  'About 
this  time  look  out  for  ear-trumpets.'  What 's  the  thing  pur 
suing  me  for?  Where  'd  you  get  it,  Celia?" 

"  Mr.  Lovell  brought  it.  Is  n't  it  wonderful,  papa  ?  " 

Winterbourne  smiled  quizzically  at  her.  By  this  time  he 
knew  her  trick  of  pretty,  unmeaning  speech.  Tim  had  taken 
pan-pipes  out  of  his  hand,  and  went  round  in  a  mock  excite 
ment,  listening  at  the  region  supposedly  of  Winterbourne's 
heart,  and  then  at  a  spider's  web  where  a  fly  was  buzzing.  But 
Winterbourne,  his  eyes  drawn  that  way,  lifted  the  fly  out  of 
the  web  of  doom,  delicately  unwound  the  threads  with  his 
great  fingers,  and  set  him  free.  Celia,  watching  him,  found  it 
an  attractive  thing  to  have  done,  and  wondered  why  she 
hadn't  thought  of  it. 

"  Listen,"  she  said  to  Tim.  "  You  can  hear  the  grass  grow." 

"  There  's  only  one  place  where  you  can  hear  the  grass 
grow,"  said  Winterbourne.  His  face  took  on  that  soft,  fine 
look  it  had  when  his  mind  travelled  miles  and  miles  at  light 
ning  rate,  to  unknown  beauties  whereof  it  knew  the  secret. 

"Where  is  that,  papa?" 

"It's  in  Schubert's  Fruhlingsglaube.  I  swear  you  can  hear 
the  roots." 

"I  'm  going  to  make  your  sister  sing  into  this  thing,"  Tim 
announced. 


1 84      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  Simple  Simon,"  said  Winterbourne,  "  pan-pipes  is  n't  for 
you.  Wait  fifty  odd  years  till  you  've  grown  to  it." 

"What  is  there  so  grand  about  the  thing  anyway?"  Tim 
wondered.  "  What  makes  it  so  much  better  than  any  other 
trumpet?" 

But  Winterbourne  had  no  notion  of  talking  mechanism 
with  the  feckless  loon  he  thought  Timothy  to  be.  Besides 
he  was  telling  Celia  something. 

"  I  wish  I  'd  known  Lovell  was  here.  He  's  done  me  an 
ill  turn." 

"  No,  papa,  not  really  ?  " 

"Lovell  has  n't  printed  anything  for  years,  and  now  he's 
gone  and  written  up  the  Valley  of  Birds,  and  sent  it  to  the 
Sun." 

"Now  what  is  the  Valley  of  Birds,  papa?" 

Tim  was  wandering  about,  directing  pan-pipes  here  and 
there,  and  finally  mounting  the  kitchen  steps. 

"  Put  that  in  the  drawer  of  my  desk  when  you  're  done 
with  it,"  Winterbourne  called.  "  The  upper  right-hand  little 
drawer." 

He,  too,  was  preparing  to  wander  away,  for  he  was  not  at 
ease  in  solitude  with  Celia.  Her  comments,  her  questions, 
were  after  a  prearranged  model.  Bess,  he  would  have  said, 
had  the  old  habit  of  wonder.  She  belonged  to  the  childhood 
of  the  race.  She  was  unspoiled. 

"  But  the  Valley  of  Birds  ?"  Celia  reminded  him. 

"  Well !  "  he  paused  to  make  a  story  of  it.  "  You  see  the 
lower  part  of  my  land,  down  there  where  the  carrots  are, 
opens  into  a  lane  and  the  lane  leads  to  a  good  big  stretch  of 
woods.  They're  first-growth  pine.  They're  monarchs. 
You  Ve  got  to  bow  the  knee.  But  before  you  get  in  among 
them  there  's  a  fringe  of  light  wood,  birch,  poplar.  Just 
about  now  it's  divine.  Well,  inside  the  shade  the  birds  seem 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       185 

to  know  they  can  have  it  their  own  way.  They  come  earlier 
there,  they  sing  louder,  they  seem  to  sing  longer  in  the  year. 
I  've  called  it  the  Valley  of  Birds,  that 's  all." 

"  But  what's  Mr.  Lovell  done  to  it? " 

"  Why,  the  devil  possessed  him,  and  he's  written  a  pretty 
essay  about  it  and  told  where  it  is,  the  fool,  and  students  in 
nature-study  and  old  ladies  with  spy-glasses  '11  come  down 
here  to  find  it.  And  if  they  do,  I  'm  blest  if  I  don't  send 
them  over  to  Lovell's  and  tell  them  he  's  a  distinguished 
author  and  wants  to  be  interviewed.  Blest  if  I  don't !" 

He  walked  off  muttering  maledictions,  but  with  a  face  as 
sunny  as  the  day,  and  Celia,  looking  after  him,  thought  he 
was  very  handsome  but  his  manners  were  most  unrefined.  She 
went  slowly  in,  musing  on  Lovell  now,  her  pretty  brows  knitted. 

"Where  's  my  sister,  Lyddy?  "  she  asked  in  the  kitchen. 

Lyddy  was  taking  her  afternoon  rest  by  the  window  in 
the  sun. 

"  Up  in  the  shed-chamber,"  she  wakened  to  answer  briefly, 
and  Celia  turned  back  and  climbed  the  old  rough  stairs. 

The  door  was  open  and  she  paused  there  to  look  at  Bess, 
seated  by  a  cobwebby  south  window,  and  asleep.  She  had  on 
her  print  morning  dress,  and  her  sleeves,  rolled  up  a  little,  left 
her  white  wrists  free.  She  had  thrown  her  head  back  in  the 
chair,  and  Celia,  regarding  the  beautiful  outline  of  it  and  the 
serious,  sweet  look  of  her  flushed  face,  thought  she  seemed 
more  a  young  mother  than  a  girl.  Her  eyes  came  open  sud 
denly  and  met  her  sister's. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  asked  quietly,  without  stirring.  Celia 
went  in  and  sat  down  on  a  stool  at  her  feet. 

"  What  makes  you  stay  up  here  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Bess.  She  glanced  about  her,  as  if 
to  seek  some  sufficient  reason.  "It's  kind  of  away  from 
everything.  It  smells  good,  too,  —  herbs  and  old  things." 


1 86      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

Celia  had  a  moment  of  considering  whether  Lovell  was  too 
young  a  man  to  be  expected  to  do  anything  for  Bess.  If  he 
had  been  an  old  man,  it  would  be  simple.  After  all,  it  was 
really  only  borrowing  money  on  the  security  of  a  voice. 
Perhaps,  even  with  a  young  man,  it  was  simple.  At  least 
nothing  would  be  lost  if  he  liked  her,  and  nothing  was  more 
likely  than  that  he  should,  for  he  was  half  hermit  in  his  tastes, 
and  here  was  Bess  making  the  shed-chamber  her  retreat. 

"  Mr.  Lovell  has  just  called,"  she  said. 

"  Has  he  ?  "  asked  Bess,  with  no  appearance  of  interest. 

"He  looked  very  handsome.'* 

But  this  Bess  did  not  answer,  and  Celia,  looking  up  at 
her,  saw  that  she  was  frowningly,  yet  with  delicacy,  extract 
ing  a  fly  from  a  cobweb  on  the  pane.  Rescues  seemed  to  go 
in  pairs  that  day. 

"  Do  you  think  he  's  handsome,  Bess?  "  insisted  Celia. 

"  Handsome  ?  "  echoed  Bess.  She  had  unwound  the  last 
filament  from  the  fettered  gauze  and  now  set  the  prisoner 
free  outside  the  window.  "  I  guess  so.  It  don't  make  so 
much  difference  about  men-folks  anyway.  If  they  're  strong 
and  well,  that 's  enough." 

Celia  looked  at  her  a  moment  and  then  burst  out  laugh 
ing.  This  was  a  real  laugh,  not  her  tinkling  accompaniment. 

"  I  should  think  you  were  Lyddy,"  she  cried.  "  O  you 
darling  thing ! " 


XV 

IT  was  not  many  days  after  this  that  Bess,  sweeping  off 
the  front  steps  to  save  Lyddy's  old  bones,  saw  a  little 
figure  full  of  haste,  yet  dignity,  advancing  up  the  path. 
It  was  Tonty,  clad  in  blue  checked  gingham  and  anxiety,  no 
hat  on  her  smoothly  braided  brown  hair,  and  a  little  willow 
switch  in  her  hand.  That  Tonty  always  carried  when  she 
walked  abroad,  because  she  was  afraid  of  Tom  Peasley's 
turkey-gobbler.  She  stopped  a  couple  of  feet  short  of  the 
flight  of  steps,  and  regarded  Bess  with  some  surprise  and 
much  pleasure,  evidently  having  expected  to  encounter 
Lyddy. 

"  Is  Jackie  at  home  ?  "  she  asked. 

She  had  heard  Winterbourne's  name,  but  chiefly  from 
her  mother's  lips  and  those  of  persons  inclined  to  stiffness 
and  willingness  to  be  grown  up,  and  she  made  no  doubt 
that  Jackie  was  his  own  best  name. 

"  Who,  little  dear  ? "  Bess  answered,  with  a  desire  to  get 
her  arms  about  the  womanly  figure. 

"  Is  Jackie  at  home  ? " 

Winterbourne  himself  now  came  round  the  corner,  smok 
ing  his  morning  pipe  and  picking  his  way  on  the  flagstones 
bordered  by  the  newly  springing  grass. 

"  Well,  my  buttons  !  "  said  he.  "  If  here  is  n't  the  lady 
of  the  manor  and  the  Maid  of  the  Mist!  I  do  feel  honored, 


mum." 


He  took  out  his  pipe  and  knuckled  his  forehead  in  good 
old  English  style.  But  Tonty  found  no  awakening  laughter. 
Her  face  broke  up  into  relief  and  happiness  and  misery, 


1 88      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

and  when  he  reached  her  on  the  walk,  she  set  upon  him 
and  clung. 

"  O  Jackie,"  she  choked,  "  Tony  's  awful  sick." 
"  Tony  sick  ?  "  he  asked  her  gravely.  "  Where  's  mother  ? " 
"  Mother  's  gone  to  Cleveland.  Is  it  far  ?  " 
"  Pretty  far,"  Winterbourne  replied  grimly.  "  But  Hades 
is  n't,"   he  added,  with   an  afterthought   of  Mrs.   Ramsay 
and   her  disordered  house.     "  Never  you   mind,   ladykin. 
I  '11  get  my  hat,  and  we  '11  see  what 's  the  matter  with  old 
Tony." 

"  Shan't  I  go  with  you  ? "  Bess  was  asking. 
She  had  set  her  broom  inside  the  hall  closet,  and  given 
her  sleeves  a  downward  smooth,  to  make  them  ready  for  the 
street.  Her  eyes  were  warmly  questioning.  Winterbourne 
knew  through  the  certainty  of  his  natural  understanding  of 
her  that  she  was  on  fire  to  get  into  a  house  where  there 
were  dirt  and  children. 

"  Come  along,"  he  said.  And  when  he  had  got  his  hat 
and  Bess  had  slipped  a  bottle  into  her  pocket,  he  took 
Tonty's  hand  and  they  walked  off  down  the  street,  Bess 
following. 

Tonty  had  looked  doubtfully  and  somewhat  jealously  on 
the  prospect  of  a  third  on  their  quest,  but  Bess  having  the 
insight  to  fall  behind,  her  presence  was  not  really  chal 
lenged.  It  came  out  now,  in  the  course  of  judicious  ques 
tioning,  that  Tony  had  been  coughing  for  several  days,  but 
to-day  he  lay  on  the  sofa  and  said  he  could  n't  get  up,  and 
bade  them  bring  him  plum-cake.  And  Mary,  the  cook,  had 
been  sick  upstairs,  and  Tonty  felt  he  ought  to  be  denied 
plum-cake,  but  there  was  no  one  to  ask.  Besides  there  was 
no  plum-cake  to  give  him.  Then  they  were  at  the  slipshod 
old  house,  and  Tonty,  scrupulously  standing  aside  to  let 
the  strange  lady  enter,  and  vaguely  conscious  of  the  confu- 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      189 

sion  to  salute  her,  wished,  in  her  little  anxious  soul,  she  had 
taken  care  of  Tony  herself. 

"  Here  we  are,"  said  Winterbourne.  "This  is  our  room." 

He  threw  open  the  nursery  door,  and  Bess  went  in. 
Tony  was  lying  on  the  .sofa,  his  small  person  flanked  by 
offerings  from  the  nursery  store.  Tin  soldiers  were  there,  a 
set  of  clothespins  Winterbourne  had  painted  for  Tonty  long 
ago,  and  helped  her  dress  in  petticoats,  and  the  tops  of  the 
establishment,  three  mangled  and  one  in  health,  were  wait 
ing  for  the  master  hand  to  spin  them.  Tiny  and  Teeny  sat 
in  little  chairs  in  the  exact  middle  of  the  room,  having  been 
put  there  by  Tonty  at  her  departure,  lest  they  should  either 
take  fire  at  the  coals  or  come  too  near  Tony's  delirious 
grasp.  Tony  himself  was  red  in  the  face,  really,  Tonty 
knew,  from  roaring  for  each  particular  thing  he  wanted  and 
exacted  as  the  tribute  of  one  nigh  unto  his  end.  He  cocked 
one  eye  at  Winterbourne,  and  then  closed  it.  He  was  not 
altogether  pleased  at  the  advent  of  grown-ups.  Tony  had 
counted  on  a  superior  day. 

Bess  went  forward  to  him  in  a  silent  haste.  She  knelt  on 
the  floor,  and  looked  at  him,  felt  his  hands  and  his  skin, 
and  held  one  of  his  solid  wrists  in  hers. 

"  What  is  it,  boy  ?  "  she  asked. 

Tony  opened  both  eyes  a  slit  and  seemed  to  investigate 
her  motives.  But  he  closed  them  tight  again,  and  groaned 
distressingly.  Winterbourne  was  frowning  with  anxiety. 

"  What  do  you  think,  Bess?"  he  inquired.  "Think  I  'd 
better  call  Pelham  ?" 

"  Mary  's  been  sick  upstairs  just  the  same  way,"  Tonty 
volunteered.  Her  smooth  forehead  was  tied  into  knots  of 
care.  "  Mary  got  sick  as  much  as  a  week  ago,  and  first  she 
talked  all  the  time  and  her  face  was  red  just  like  Tony's,  and 
we  carried  her  up  all  our  things  to  see  if  she  'd  like  'em,  and 


1 90      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

when  father  came  home  at  night  he  got  the  doctor.  And 
the  doctor  sent  her  away  to  Mary's  sister's.  But  Tony  's 
sick  just  the  same  way." 

Bess  had  put  her  hands  under  Tony's  arms,  and  now 
she  lifted  the  firm  little  body  and  set  it  upright.  She  was 
all  of  a  smile,  and  Winterbourne,  watching  her,  thought 
her  a  witch  of  a  girl  who  seemed  to  know  nothing  and  yet 
was  unfailingly  on  deck. 

"Tonty,"  said  she,  "can  you  find  me  some  molasses?" 

Tonty  stared  at  her.  This  was  far  from  anything  she  had 
expected. 

"  In  the  kitchen  I  could,"  she  returned  dutifully. 

"We'll  go  into  the  kitchen  to  make  it.  Tony's  got  to 
have  molasses  candy.  If  we  sent  for  the  doctor,  that's  what 
he'd  say,  first  thing.  I  guess  mother  wouldn't  mind,  would 
she?" 

"Oh,  no,"  Tonty  replied,  in  a  conviction  devoid  of  bit 
terness.  "  Mother  would  n't  mind."  She  could  have  ex 
plained  that  mothers  were  sleepy  beings  whose  only  care 
was  lest  they  should  not  find  something  or  catch  the  train. 

Bess  took  Tiny  and  Teeny  each  by  the  hand,  and  gave 
Winterbourne  a  beckoning  glance. 

"Here  we  go  into  the  kitchen,"  said  she,  "to  make  the 
candy  for  Tony.  It's  too  bad  Tony's  too  sick  to  go,  but 
maybe  he  '11  be  better  by  the  time  the  candy  's  started." 

Tonty  showed  the  way,  and  Winterbourne  followed  on, 
knowing  it  was  expected  of  him,  but  he  had  an  illuminating 
glimpse  over  his  shoulder  at  a  little  figure  sitting  bolt  up 
right  on  the  couch,  eyes  shining  and  body  in  a  tension  to 
be  up  and  in  the  midst  of  the  molasses  carnival. 

In  the  kitchen  was  Harriet  Beale,  a  willing,  slipshod 
girl  of  sixteen,  working  her  way  through  a  multitude  of 
last  night's  dishes.  Harriet  saw  no  reason  for  washing 


JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      191 

dishes  until  the  present  supply  gave  out,  and  nobody  in 
this  figment  of  a  home  seemed  to  have  preferences  to  a 
counter  effect.  She  was  not  surprised  at  their  advent,  hav 
ing  long  ago  learned  not  to  expect  the  sky  to  fall  in  the 
regulation  way  at  the  Ramsays'.  It  always  fell  criss-cross, 
or  had  a  fashion  of  slumping  down  in  the  middle.  She 
found  the  molasses  for  them,  and  the  butter,  and  washed  a 
spider,  old  to  the  point  of  an  artistic  smoothness,  and  Bess 
measured  with  what  seemed  a  careless  hand  but  was  masterly 
from  long  practice,  and  as  she  mixed  and  stirred  and  the 
smell  of  hot  molasses  filled  the  air,  she  sang. 

Three  children  stood  a  pace  away  and  looked  at  her,  and 
Winterbourne,  sunk  into  a  big  chair  in  the  kitchen  corner, 
watched  her  and  let  his  mind  wander  back  to  the  simpler 
times  when  earth  maidens  such  as  she  enthralled  the  hearts 
of  men  and  helped  them  turn  the  soil  from  wildness  into 
garden.  She  seemed  to  belong  there,  in  the  old,  old  time 
before  the  pageant  of  life  had  begun  to  shine  brighter  than 
life  itself.  She  was  singing  little  songs  to  gay  measures,  not 
always  with  words  to  them,  and  he  found  himself  charmed 
and  dulled  by  them  as  if  she  had  expected  him  to  be;  and 
when  he  remembered  the  children  he  saw  they,  too,  were 
charmed. 

But  there  were  four  children  now  instead  of  three.  Tony 
had  come  slowly  and  softly  in  from  the  nursery,  at  first  like 
a  little  criminal  lest  he  should  be  questioned  and  made  to 
remember  his  chosen  state  of  solitary  invalidism,  and  then, 
when  he  found  himself  ignored,  quite  boldly,  as  one  who 
had  returned  to  his  lost  manhood.  Still  singing,  she  poured 
the  candy  into  its  tins,  and  set  the  tins  in  water,  and  when 
the  brew  had  hardened  slightly,  creased  it  into  squares. 
Then  she  allowed  the  spell  to  break. 

"  Three  pieces  apiece  this  forenoon,"  she  said  to  Tonty. 


1 92      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"Three  this  afternoon.  Not  any  more  until  to-morrow. 
Harriet  '11  give  them  to  you  and  set  what 's  left  in  the  upper 
cupboard.  Now  let's  come  out  and  play  in  the  old  sleigh." 

But  they  waited  for  it  to  cool,  and  then  went  most  gayly, 
the  twelve  pieces  in  a  little  dish  in  Tonty's  hand.  And 
when  they  were  settled  in  the  sleigh  under  the  grapevine 
that  straggled  from  the  sweet-bough  tree  to  the  fence, 
Winterbourne  and  Bess  left  them  there  and  went  home  to 
gether.  He  was  wondering  at  her,  looking  at  her  now  and 
again  from  under  his  heavy  brows. 

"Bess,"  said  he,  "how  did  you  know  there  was  an  old 
sleigh  to  play  in?" 

She  was  walking  happily  along,  pleased  with  the  spring 
air,  glad  he  was  beside  her,  and  all  a  pleasant  warmth  from 
the  kindly  sun.  Now  she  returned  him  a  little  glance  of 
surprise. 

"Saw  it  there  from  the  front  walk,"  she  said,  "when  we 
went  in." 

"  How'd  you  know  Tony  was  shamming?  " 

"Oh,  anybody  could  tell  that.  He  hadn't  any  pulse  to 
speak  of.  His  skin  was  just  as  moist!  And  didn't  you  hear 
her  say  the  girl  had  been  sick  upstairs  and  they  'd  carried 
her  up  things?  Why,  he  got  on  to  that  quick  as  a  wink. 
He  saw  that 's  the  way  to  get  things." 

"  Well,  is  he  going  to  keep  on  shamming  when  he  wants  to 
get  things  ? " 

Winterbourne  felt  his  own  ignorance  beside  her.  She  seemed 
to  him  the  universal  guardian  of  mankind,  dowered  by  nature 
with  all  sorts  of  knowledge  needed  for  the  upgrowing  of  the 
race.  But  only  thoughts  of  the  simplest  were  hers,  if  indeed 
she  thought  at  all.  She  was  going  along  at  a  fine  free  pace, 
swinging  a  little  lilac  switch  she  had  picked  up,  and  flicking  her 
skirt  with  it. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       193 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said,  "  it  has  n't  gone  far.  He  '11  forget  all 
about  it  by  night.  They  '11  only  remember  the  candy.  Except 
Tonty.  She  's  the  kind  that  remembers  everything." 

Winterbourne  felt  a  sudden  desire  to  know  her  better. 

"Are  you  the  kind  that  remembers  every  thing?"  he  asked. 

She  took  it  with  the  greatest  simplicity,  and  seemed  to 
think  a  moment  before  she  answered. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said  then,  gravely.  "  I  don't  dwell 
on  things.  I  don't  have  time." 

"  Do  you  think  you  work  too  hard?" 

Tenderness  lay  in  his  tone,  and  it  made  her  turn  to  him. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said,  in  some  surprise.  "  I  'm  strong  as  a 
horse.  No,  I  guess  I  never 've  worked  too  hard.  But  Celia  —  " 
a  swift  radiance  passed  across  her  face  —  "  Celia 's  made  dif 
ferent.  It  's  well  she  did  n't  have  to  do  the  things  I  have. 
They  'd  have  broken  her  down." 

"  But  Celia  has  n't  any  gift  as  you  have."  He  said  it  in 
voluntarily,  longing,  as  he  often  did,  to  know  exactly  how 
she  looked  upon  her  own  endowment. 

"  Has  n't  any  gift?" 

She  was  puzzled,  he  could  see. 

"  No.  You  can  sing,  and  Celia  can't." 

"  I  'm  sick  and  tired  to  death  of  all  this  talk  about  my  sing 
ing."  She  was  not  only  sick  and  tired  but  irritated,  too,  and 
that,  breaking  the  surface  of  her  gentleness,  made  him  see 
how  honestly  she  felt  it.  "  Singing  's  no  great  shakes.  I 
should  think  anybody  could  sing." 

"  But  they  can't.   Don't  you  know  they  can't  ?  " 

"  No,  I  suppose  they  can't,"  she  conceded  doubtfully. 

"  Bess,  you  must  n't  say  things  are  n't  any  great  shakes." 

"Must  n't  I,  sir?"  She  turned  toJiim  liquid  brown  eyes 
full  of  an  adoring  dutifulness.  "  Then  I  won't." 

"Why  don't  you  ask  why  you  mustn't? " 


i94     JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"I  don't  need  to,  sir.  If  you  tell  me  to  do  anything,  I  '11 
do  it." 

This  moved  him  to  such  despairing  love  of  her  that  he 
had  to  say  rudely,  to  counteract  it,  — 

"  Bess,  you  're  disgustingly  servile.  You  're  always  doing 
what  everybody  wants  you  to.  You  've  no  will  of  your  own." 

"Haven't  I,  sir?"  she  asked  him;  but  at  the  moment 
she  said  it,  a  picture  flashed  upon  her  of  Dwight  Hunter 
turning  away  from  her,  the  blood  rushing  into  his  cheek  after 
that  sounding  blow. 

"  Not  a  jot."  He  was  working  himself  up  to  move  her  if 
he  could.  "  But  when  it  comes  to  the  one  thing  you  might 
do  and  ought  to  do,  you  won't  hear  to  anybody." 

"  I  '11  hear  to  you,  sir." 

A  sweet  trouble  was  upon  her  face.  He  knew  that  without 
looking. 

"  You  won't  sing." 

"  I  do  sing,  sir.   I  sing  a  lot." 

"Yes,  but  you  won't  give  up  your  life  to  it.  Look  how 
you  charmed  those  kiddies  this  morning.  Why,  you  could 
charm  everybody  —  folks  that  are  sick,  Bess,  folks  that  are 
in  trouble.  Don't  you  want  to  charm  'em  ? " 

Her  eyes  swam  in  tears.  She  made  a  little  involuntary 
motion  like,  he  thought,  the  impulse  to  touch  his  arm. 

"  Have  I  got  to,  sir  ?  "  she  asked  imploringly. 

"What  the  devil  makes  you  hate  it  so?" 

"  I  don't  hate  to  sing.  I  hate  to  have  on  tight  clothes  — 
and  long  under  my  feet  —  and  slippers  that  hurt  me — and 
tell  lies  about  what  I  know  and  where  I  Ve  been.  I  hate  to 
be  shut  up  in  a  room  with  a  lot  of  people  and  sing  to  them. 
The  air  gets  bad.  It  makes  me  sick." 

All  kinds  of  appeals  were  in  her  voice.  She  seemed  to  be 
beseeching  him  to  deliver  her  from  a  slavery  she  abhorred,  and 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       195 

he  thought  of  the  savage,  used  to  free  air,  caught  by  civiliza 
tion  and  succumbing  to  white  men's  miseries. 

"  Well,  Bess/'  he  said, "  I  give  it  up.  There  ought  to  be 
a  forest  primeval  for  you  and  me." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  said,  almost,  his  ear  told  him,  on  the  verge 
of  tears.  "  I  'd  go  anywhere  with  you." 

That  was  beautiful  but  also  startling,  and  set  him  wonder 
ing  how,  when  life  was  over  for  a  man  and  he  had  settled 
down  to  translating  Theocritus,  things  should  grow  so  exceed 
ingly  queer  about  him.  But  they  were  at  the  side  door  and 
Dwight  Hunter  was  coming  out  of  the  yard.  He  was  frown 
ing  and  giving  the  last  turn  to  a  handkerchief  about  his 
fingers. 

"  Hurt  you?"  Winterbourne  asked. 

Dwight  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  much.  I  was  moving  some  of  the  old  planks  to 
clean  the  cellar  and  got  a  sliver  a  yard  long.  I  can't  find  the 
whole  of  it." 

"  Give  me  a  try.  Then  Bess  '11  do  it  up  for  you." 

Winterbourne  innocently  saw  her  again  ministering  to 
humanity  in  this  day  of  hurts  and  hypochondria.  But  she 
dealt  him  his  next  surprise. 

"  I  guess  you  can  get  it  out,"  she  said  to  Dwight,  and 
walked  by  him  to  the  house. 

He  gave  an  involuntary  wince  of  pain  of  one  sort  or  an 
other,  the  hurt  finger  or  the  mind,  and  kept  his  way. 

"  It 's  all  right,"  he  called  back  to  Winterbourne.  "  Pel- 
ham  'sover  here  in  his  buggy,  waiting  for  some  tomato-plants 
I  've  got  for  him.  He'll  fix  me  up." 

But  when  Winterbourne  went  in,  Bess  was  waiting  for  him 
in  the  hall.  She  looked  a  shade  paler  perhaps,  but  she  spoke 
indifferently :  — 

"Do  you  think  he's  hurt?" 


196      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  If  he  is,  you  don't  deserve  to  be  told,"  said  Winterbourne, 
regarding  her  with  a  growing  smile.  He  liked  to  see  human 
nature  come  out  under  velvet  disguises,  and  he  wondered 
what  there  was  about  Dwight  Hunter  to  make  a  girl  hate 
him.  "  I  thought  you  were  a  kind  of  angel,  Bess ;  but  I  guess 
you're  a  little  devil  after  all/' 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Bess  meekly,  "  I  guess  I  am." 

Then  she  took  her  broom  from  the  hall  closet  and  went 
out  to  finish  sweeping  the-front  steps. 

But  that  night  she  had  an  errand  to  do,  and  stepped  away 
through  the  dusk.  Bess  had  a  heavy  heart  that  night  and  an 
angry  mind.  Her  mind  had  been  telling  her  how  foolish  it  all 
was,  what  she  was  going  to  do,  and  she  had  an  irritated  sense 
that  she  ought  not  to  have  been  forced  by  the  nature  of  things 
to  do  it.  But  that  something  inside  us  which  insists  upon  or 
derly  deeds  told  her  she  had  really  got  to  take  a  walk  and 
make  a  speech.  Her  way  led  her  to  the  west  along  an  elm- 
bordered  busy  road  and  over  the  vocal  Sutton  that  was  little 
more  than  a  brook,  though  from  the  courtesy  of  remembered 
spring  floods,  it  had  to  be  called  a  river.  Here  she  stopped 
and  sat  down,  in  the  old  attitude  of  the  thoughtful  or  musing, 
on  the  high  rail  where  generations  of  schoolboys  had  hacked 
their  names.  The  stream  was  small  now  and  flowed  silently, 
but  the  moon  glinted  in  it  and  that  invited  her.  She  was  in  a 
mood  so  still  that  it  might  have  been  called  sadness  if  she  were 
ever  sad,  but  her  muscles  were  always  too  healthfully  strained, 
her  blood  always  flowed  too  normally,  to  allow  of  that.  If  she 
could  have  looked  at  herself  as  Celia  was  always  looking  on 
at  her  own  inner  complexities,  she  would  have  said  that  the 
master  control  of  her  nature  was  a  great  obedience,  a  patience 
resultant  from  it.  . 

Bess  never  knew  why  she  was  to  be  patient,  only  some 
voice  told  her  she  had  to  be.  The  rebellions  of  another  sort 


JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       197 

of  nature  would  have  seemed  to  her  much  like  madness.  As 
she  sat  here,  she  thought  about  her  voice,  whether  it  would 
please  Winterbourne  to  have  her  take  those  complex  and 
briery  paths  —  for  they  were  briery,  however  plainly  they 
promised  to  be  carpeted  with  velvet  ease  —  that  seemed  to 
lead  to  that  doubtful  benefit  called  singing.  If  he  wished  it, 
so  it  must  be,  but  she  hoped,  even  out  of  her  obedience,  that 
it  need  never  come  to  that.  It  was  very  pleasant  sitting  on 
the  rail  and  communing  with  a  moon  too  far  away  to  trouble 
her  by  asking  her  to  be  something  other  than  her  calm  de 
sires  bade,  but  her  errand  gave  her  a  little  reminding  prick, 
and  she  rose  and  went  stoutly,  though  unwillingly,  on. 

The  road  led  at  last  to  a  white  house,  glamorous  in  the 
moonlight,  for  it  had  a  porch  of  noble  proportions,  and  on 
the  pillars  of  it  the  light  lay  sweetly  and  turned  it  into  some 
thing  more  beautiful  even  than  rich  men's  palaces,  —  the  hint 
of  other  countries  and  other  times  when  in  pillared  seclusions 
dwelt  old  gods.  Bess  did  not  think  of  it  in  that  way,  but  it 
seemed  to  her  full  of  peace  and  lovely.  There  was  no  light 
in  the  front  of  the  house,  but  far  back  in  the  barn  at  the  side 
she  saw  the  glint  of  a  lantern,  and  went  for  it  straight,  be 
cause  it  seemed  better  than  going  into  the  house  at  all.  When 
she  neared  it  enough  to  see  that  the  light  was  stationary 
within,  not  swinging  as  a  man  did  chores  at  night,  she  came 
face  to  face  with  the  great  door,  and  stood  there  a  moment 
listening,  looking  also  at  what  she  had  not  expected. 

Dwight  Hunter,  surrounded  by  monstrous  shadows,  stood 
in  the  dark  seclusion  of  the  barn.  He  was  at  a  bench,  rub 
bing  down  a  piece  of  wood,  and  as  he  lifted  it  to  sight  across 
it  critically,  she  had  no  difficulty  in  seeing  what  it  was  :  the 
curved  leg  of  a  highboy,  still  in  the  rough  but  tending  in 
the  right  line.  As  she  stood,  about  to  speak,  he  gave  a  little 
exclamation,  and  threw  down  the  wood.  Then  he  stood  star- 


198       JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

ing  frowningly  at  her  where  she  waited  in  the  dark,  but,  the 
unrecognizing  look  on  his  face  told  her,  not  seeing  her.  Now 
it  seemed  for  the  first  minute  that  she  was  spying  upon  him, 
invading  his  solitude,  and  she  advanced,  speaking  his  name, 
too  timidly,  she  found,  to  suit  her  own  ideas  of  the  common 
place  nature  of  the  errand  she  had  come  on.  So  she  said  it 
again,  more  firmly,  and  it  sounded  like  defiance.  In  the  in 
stant  she  had  time  to  see  how  fagged  he  looked,  with  that 
expression  of  youth  undone  which  is  not  in  the  least  like  the 
tiredness  of  age.  It  is  the  aspect  of  the  sturdy  man  who 
has  run  a  race.  There  was  sadness  in  his  eyes.  It  made  them 
pathetic,  and  seeing  that,  her  motherly  heart  yearned  inquir 
ingly  toward  him,  and  then  caught  itself  back  again  with  a 
species  of  anger.  He  was  alert  now,  aware  of  her  step  and 
the  outline  of  petticoats;  but  when  she  came  forward  into 
the  circle  of  light,  he  gave  an  incredulous,  — 

"  Good  God  !  what  are  you  here  for  ?  " 

He  had  been  thinking  of  her  while  he  worked,  and  now 
that  she  appeared  like  the  embodiment  of  a  dream,  he  was, 
though  amazed,  not  greatly  so,  for  the  dream  lingered  and 
she  seemed  the  unreal  phantom  it  had  woven.  She  spoke  at 
once: — 

"  I  came  to  beg  your  pardon." 

"  My  pardon !  "  he  echoed  in  amaze.  "  What  do  you  want 
to  beg  my  pardon  for?" 

Her  cheeks  reddened,  he  could  see  in  the  lantern-light, 
and  her  eyes  awoke  with  that  defiance  he  had  more  than  once 
called  into  them.  But  she  was  determined  to  be  good  and 
she  spoke  steadily:  — 

"  For  what  I  did." 

He  knew  what  she  had  done;  his  cheek,  he  had  thought 
more  than  once  that  day,  burned  with  the  memory  of  it.  He 
had  meant,  in  moments  of  furious  recollection,  to  pay  her 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       199 

back,  not  in  blow  for  blow,  but  some  mortification  of  the  mind 
that  should  put  her  in  her  place ;  for  after  all  she  was  just  a 
girl,  and  it  need  n't  turn  her  into  a  raging  fury  to  know  a  man 
was  in  love  with  her.  Again  he  had  wondered,  in  pauses  just 
as  fierce,  how  if  he  paid  his  debt  in  kisses.  But  seeing  her 
alone  in  the  poor  hospitality  of  his  shop,  and  having,  hard- 
worked  as  he  knew  she  was  all  day,  walked  so  far  to  make 
her  reparation,  the  evil  spirit  went  out  of  him,  and  he  took 
up  the  piece  of  wood  he  had  thrown  on  his  bench  and  held 
it  out  to  her. 

"Want  to  see  what  I  'm  doing?"  he  asked. 

She  did  want  to,  and  suddenly  grateful  to  him  for  not  lead 
ing  her  along  the  road  of  her  mortification,  she  took  it  and 
said  quite  humbly,  — 

"It  belongs  to  a  highboy.   Do  you  mend  them?  " 

"  I  'm  always  mending  old  truck/1  The  tired  look  had  gone 
out  of  his  eyes ;  his  face  was  eager  and  strong  again  with  the 
color  flushing  in.  "  Come  here  and  see." 

He  took  up  the  lantern  and  turned  to  the  back  of  the  barn. 
Bess  followed  him,  and  then  she  became  aware  that  she  was 
in  a  colony  of  bureaus,  tables,  chairs,  all  old,  some  pathetic 
in  their  dilapidation,  some  in  a  perfect  state,  yet  evidently 
awaiting  the  gloss  which  should  proclaim  them  ready  for 
their  place  again  in  the  world.  It  all  bewildered  her. 

"  Why,"  said  she,  "  I  did  n't  know  you  were  jn  the  furniture 
business." 

"I  'm  not,"  said  he,  with  the  carelessness  of  the  man  who 
is  displaying  his  own  weakness,  yet  not  calling  notice  to  it. 
"  But  I  can't  help  working  on  old  things.  I  can't  help  buying 
'em  and  putting  'em  to  rights.  I  say  to  myself  I  '11  sell  'em, 
but  I  don't." 

"  You  can't,  can  you  ? "  said  Bess,  with  unexpected  com 
prehension.  "  I  don't  blame  you.  I  could  n't  either." 


200      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

He  could  have  thrown  up  his  hat,  if  he  had  had  one,  and 
uttered  a  barbaric  yell.  She  actually  understood.  She  could 
speak,  too,  his  language.  But  he  bent  over  a  sewing-table 
and  said,  in  a  melting  voice  she  conceived  to  be  for  the  table 
alone, — 

"  Do  you  like  this?  " 

"It 's  inlaid,"  said  Bess,  passing  her  hand  delicately  along 
the  front. 

What  sprang  in  his  mind  was  the  resultant  query,  "Won't 
you  let  me  give  it  to  you  ?"  But  this  he  had  sense  enough 
to  suppress,  saying  instead,  "It 's  the  last  thing  I  finished. " 

Then  they  walked  up  and  down  aisles  of  dusky  wood,  and 
he  held  the  lantern  here  and  there  to  show  new  beauties  and 
flaming  possibilities  in  one-legged  things  that  had  been  bar 
barously  used.  No  suspicion  touched  him  that  this  was  a 
simulated  interest  to  make  their  reconciliation  the  more  last 
ing.  He  had  a  clear  comprehension  of  Celia's  ardent  likings 
for  whatever  her  protagonist  liked,  and  could  smile  at  them 
,even  while  he  approved,  knowing  they  were  the  ways  of  a 
girl;  but  Bess,  he  knew,  was  different.  He  would  even  have 
said  she  had  no  time  to  concern  herself  with  the  tricks  of 
other  mating  creatures,  bound,  in  spite  of  themselves,  to  carry 
on  nature's  ancient  will.  But  one  question  he  did  put,  from 
his  desire  to  know  more  about  her  and  come  into  the  country 
where  she  lived,  as  she  to-night  had  entered  briefly  into  his. 

"What  makes  you  like  old  furniture?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Bess,  with  her  direct  honesty.  "  There 
was  a  good  deal  of  it  in  the  tavern  where  I  worked.  I  used 
to  rub  it.  They  did  n't  make  me,  but  it  needed  it,  so  I  did." 

This  recalled  him  to  the  hardships  of  her  life,  as  he  saw 
her  at  Winterbourne's  day  by  day.  Dwight  loved  to  work 
with  his  own  hands,  but  he  was  uneasy  in  seeing  these  women- 
things,  with  the  bloom  of  youth  upon  them,  too  hard  bestead. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      201 

"  You  're  tired/'  he  told  her.  "  Sit  down  in  this  chair.  It 
was  great-grandfather's.  I  found  it  in  the  cellar." 

That  was  the  tone  she  resented,  the  tenderness  of  it,  and 
instantly  her  panoply  of  heightened  color  and  stiffened  neck 
was  upon  her.  But  she  had  determined  to  be  good,  and  the 
thought  was  really  present  with  her.  She  turned  about,  and 
he  also,  to  let  the  light  of  his  lantern  lead  her  to  the  door. 

"  What  makes  you  like  it  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  last  effort  to 
make  the  penitential  journey  complete — "old  furniture?  " 

He  had  put  the  lantern  out,  by  a  swift  dash,  and  now 
he  set  it  down  and  was  walking  with  her  to  the  gate. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly,"  he  said.  "  I  fixed  over  one 
piece  —  it  was  mother's  little  sewing-chair  —  and  then  I 
wanted  to  do  some  more.  I  guess  I  like  wood.  I  like  the 
grain  of  it,  the  way  it  comes  out.  I  always  thought  I  'd  like 
to  make  a  fiddle." 

Bess  turned  to  him  there  in  the  moonlight  with  a  stirring 
of  the  first  acknowledged  interest  he  had  ever  roused  in 
her. 

"  Can  you  play  ? "  she  asked.  "  Can  you  play  the 
fiddle?"  J 

"  Why,  yes,  a  little,"  said  he,  thinking  not  of  the  fiddle 
but  the  harmonies  in  her  voice. 

"  Could  you  play  in  concerts  ? "  she  challenged  him. 
There  was  excitement  in  her  tone,  even  beseeching. 

"  No,  of  course  I  could  n't.  I  've  spoiled  my  hands  be 
sides.  Look  how  I  Ve  worked." 

Her  excitement  seemed  suddenly  quelled,  and  she  turned 
away  from  him  in  the  dying  dawn  of  that  first  flutter  of  it. 
For  an  instant  she  had  wondered  whether  he  stood  with  her 
in  the  inexplicable  bond  of  partially  knowing  how  to  do 
naturally  something  which,  the  knowing  had  decreed,  must 
furthermore  be  displayed  through  a  forced  travail,  artificially. 


202      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY, 

Only  he  was  not,  perhaps,  like  her,  pressed,  to  the  point  of 
cruelty,  to  do  it. 

"Good-night,"  she  said.  "I  'm  sorry  —  " 

He  knew  this  was  to  the  end  of  her  further  abasement 
and  said  involuntarily,  — 

"  Don't." 

But  she  ended,  neither,  it  appeared,  hearing  him  or  want 
ing  to  hear.  "  I  'm  sorry  I  did  n't  behave  like  a  lady." 

He  was  beside  her  on  the  country  road,  fitting  his  steps 
to  hers.  He  meant,  she  saw,  to  go  home  with  her.  She 
stopped. 

"  Don't !  You  're  very  kind,"  she  added,  from  this  same 
stubborn  desire  to  do  her  full  courteous  duty,  "  but  I  'm 
not  afraid." 

He  only  waited  for  her. 

"  I  'd  get  my  coat,"  he  said,  "if  it  was  n't  for  keeping  you 
waiting." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  go,"  said  Bess,  "  truly  I  don't." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Dwight,  "I  won't.   Good-night." 

But  after  a  few  rods  on  her  rapid  way,  she  looked  back, 
sure  of  what  she  was  to  see.  There  he  was,  following  leis 
urely.  He  meant,  in  her  phrasing,  to  see  her  home,  that  no 
harm  come  to  her.  The  only  way  to  shorten  the  irritating 
situation  was  to  walk  fast,  and  this  she  did. 


XVI 

BESS  went  in  at  the  front  door  and  paused  a  moment 
in  the  hall  to  put  the  hair  back  from  her  moist  fore 
head.  She  had  walked  as  fast  as  she  well  could,  to 
show  Dwight  Hunter  she  wanted  to  shake  off  the  unwill 
ing  service  of  his  protection  as  soon  as  possible.  She  knew 
exactly  where  he  dropped  off,  at  the  moment  the  lights  of 
home  shone  out  for  her. 

"  Bess,  is  that  you  ? "  Catherine's  voice  came  to  her  from 
the  dining-room. 

Catherine  was  sitting  at  the  large  table  there,  looking  over 
a  paper  she  had  once  written  on  a  visit  to  Venetian  palaces. 
When  she  had  realized  how  public-spirited  Mrs.  Ramsay 
was,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  ought  to  do  something  to 
keep  abreast  of  events  and  justify  herself  in  being.  The 
paper  was  all  she  had  to  contribute  to  the  public  weal,  but 
she  was  doubtful  of  its  value,  and  at  this  minute  she  sat 
wondering  whether  she  liked  to  go  in  to  Winterbourne  with 
it  and  ask  him  what  he  thought.  But  it  was  a  difficult  quest. 
She  did  so  want  to  do  something  admirable,  and  yet  there 
were  no  voices  within  her  that  ever  told  her  whether  she  did 
well  or  ill.  Intemperate  admirations  —  these  were  her  lot 
after  the  common  judgment  taught  her  mind  which  way  to 
go,  and  when  its  approbation  soured,  she,  too,  condemned 
unflinchingly. 

"  Bess,"  she  called  again,  "  come  here." 

Bess  went  out  to  her,  unwillingly,  knowing  she  was  no  fit 
object  for  the  judging  eye.  Catherine,  cool  and  sweet  in  her 
lilac  muslin,  looked  up  at  as  tousled  a  maid  as  ever  bacchanal 


204      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

revels  left  to  smooth  a  tumbled  mop  of  hair  and  coax  the 
hot  blood  out  of  glowing  cheeks. 

"  Celia  has  been  looking  for  you/*  said  Catherine,  and 
then,  when  Bess  came  an  unthinking  step  further  toward  the 
lamplight,  "Where  have  you  been?" 

Bess  did  not  answer.  Her  doglike  eyes  besought  indul 
gence. 

"Where  under  the  sun  have  you  been?"  Catherine  in 
sisted,  now  with  a  tinge  of  sharpness.  "  How  you  look,  child! 
Tell  me  where  you  've  been." 

Then  she  made  no  secret  of  it.  Until  this  moment,  it  had 
not  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  anywhere  at  all  to  chal 
lenge  censure,  but  the  one  glimpse  of  Catherine,  the  image 
of  the  world  and  its  proprieties,  told  her. 

"I  went  up  to  see  Dwight  Hunter." 

"  To  see  him  ?  Where  did  you  go  to  see  him  ?" 

"To  his  house,"  Bess  answered,  in  a  tried  beseechingness 
of  eye  and  voice.  "  I  knew  where  it  was." 

"  What  did  you  want  to  see  him  about  ?  "  Catherine  per 
sisted.  Something — some  infection  of  the  girl's  own  emo 
tion  told  her  there  was  more  in  this  than  met  the  eye. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  him,"  Bess  repeated ;  and,  softly  though 
it  was,  Catherine  knew  she  would  vouchsafe  no  more. 

"  But  you  can't  go  to  call  on  young  men  at  their  houses," 
she  told  her,  not  unkindly.  "You  mustn't  do  that  sort  of 
thing.  It  is  n't  decent." 

At  the  word  —  not  deliberately  chosen  —  two  things  hap 
pened.  Bess,  her  eyes  now  all  an  appealing  fright,  put  up 
her  head  and  turned  it  from  side  to  side  in  a  way  of  an 
guished  petition.  Were  there  yet  more  things  for  her  to 
learn  in  a  mysterious  and  unfriendly  world?  Also,  Winter- 
bourne's  voice  came  from  the  sitting-room  where  he  had  his 
lamp  and  book. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       205 

"Come,  Catherine,  come!  Don't  go  round  inaugurating 
dryads  into  that  kind  of  mystery." 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  even,  whatever  the  words  might 
be,  Bess  flew  to  him.  He  thought  in  alarm,  as  he  looked  up 
to  meet  her  rush  and  onset  from  the  doorway,  that  she 
might  be  about  to  cast  herself  at  his  feet.  But  she  did  not 
speak.  She  stopped  in  front  of  him,  her  hands  pressed  to 
gether,  her  eyes  eloquently  beseeching  him.  They  seemed  to 
say  a  great  many  things,  and  he,  reading  them,  though  im 
perfectly,  was  moved  to  the  core.  "  Do  you  blame  me  ?  " 
they  seemed  to  say.  "Tell  me,  master,  and  quickly,  for  if 
you  do  the  end  has  come." 

This  Winterbourne  did  not  translate.  He  only  felt  the 
necessity  of  a  quick  rebuttal  of  all  censure. 

"Go  to  bed,  child,"  he  said  kindly,  "you're  tired." 
Then  as  her  eyes  still  questioned  him,  he  answered  them. 
"  You  're  a  good  child.  You  're  the  best  ever — yes,  and  the 
tiredest.  Go  to  bed,  Bess-." 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  and,  with  one  last  look  at  him, 
all  gratitude  and  warm  devotion,  fled  up  the  front  stairs. 

Then  Winterbourne  heard  Catherine  pushing  back  her 
chair,  and  he  knew  she  meant  to  talk  it  over.  Bess,  on  the 
landing  above,  saw  Celia  waiting,  she  also  ready  with  the 
cry, — 

"  O  Bess,  where  have  you  been  ? " 

Bess  had  not  meant  to  stay  for  talk,  but  she  took  Celia's 
hand  humbly  and  turned  with  her  into  the  room.  Celia's 
candles  were  lighted,  yet  in  the  dimness  of  the  chamber  she 
hardly  saw  how  perturbed  her  sister  was,  though  something 
in  her  air  bespoke  a  troubled  haste. 

.  "  Where  Ve  you  been,  Bess?"  she  questioned.  She  drew 
her  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  Bess  yielding,  though  not 
willingly. 


206      JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  I  went  up  to  see  Dwight  Hunter/'  said  Bess.  She 
seemed  all  a  dogged  patience. 

"To  see  Dwight  Hunter?  What  for?" 

"  I  wanted  to  see  him." 

"Couldn't  you  wait  till  to-morrow?  He's  sure  to  be 
here." 

"  No,"  said  Bess.  "  I  couldn't  wait  very  well." 

"  What  was  it  ?  "  Celia  insisted.  "  What  did  you  want  to 
say  to  him?" 

"  I  wanted  to  say  I  was  sorry." 

"Sorry!  What  for?" 

"  I  slapped  him,"  said  Bess,  with  simplicity. 

She  was  beginning  to  feel  the  delicious  aching  numbness 
of  the  body  that  had  been  active  —  in  the  open  air  a  good 
deal  of  the  time  —  through  the  long  day.  Celia  put  a  hand 
on  her  shoulder  and  shook  her  gently. 

"  Wake  up,  Bess,"  she  bade  her,  in  a  voice  of  laughter. 
"  Do  you  know  what  you  said  ?  You  said  you  slapped  him." 

"Yes,  I  did,"  said  Bess,  in  her  dull  patience.  It  began 
to  seem  to  her  at  last  a  little  thing  to  have  raised  a  pother 
so  inconceivably  great.  Or  perhaps  it  was  a  large  thing  and 
she  was  again  proven  to  be  incompetent  to  meet  these  exi 
gencies.  "  I  slapped  him,  but  I  knew  I  had  n't  behaved  like 
a  lady  and  I  went  to  tell  him  so.  Good-night." 

She  rose,  and  put  her  arms  above  her  head  with  the  silent 
yawn  which  Celia  meant  some  time  to  abolish  in  her,  but 
which  still  seemed,  so  sweet  she  was,  so  fragrant  the  red 
mouth  she  opened,  not  undesirable  after  all. 

"  But  what  made  you  ?  "  Celia  was  pressing,  not  believing 
in  the  heinous  deed  in  the  least,  and  yet  having  to  approach 
what  had  really  happened  by  that  only  possible  way.  "What 
had  he  done  to  you  ?  " 

But  that  was  never  to  be  told.    Nor  would  Bess  lie,  for 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      207 

she  was  going  to  her  own  room  as  soon  as  might  be,  to  say, 
"  Now  I  lay  me,"  and  it  was  not  a  square  game  to  approach 
her  kind  personal  deity  save  with  clean  lips. 

"I  slapped  him/'  she  repeated.   "That's  all." 

And  though  Celia  held  her  dress,  ostensibly  to  kiss  her, 
she  was  resolutely  gone. 

When  Winterbourne  heard  Catherine  coming,  he  laid 
down  his  book.  Some  announcing  aura  told  him  he  was  to 
discourse  with  her  in  the  way  that  tired  and  terrified  him 
because  it  ended  nowhere.  What  was  the  use  of  communing, 
he  would  have  said,  battling  with  clumsy  clouts  of  words  to 
approach  an  understanding  where  none  is  ?  If  you  under 
stand,  you  two  souls  who  are  talking  together,  you  can  do 
it  without  words.  If  you  don't  leap  at  apprehension,  keep 
silence,  for  words  will  never  help  you.  As  he  saw  her  com 
ing,  pathetic  in  the  trouble  of  her  brows,  he  remembered 
those  other  first  days  when  he  was  ready  to  help  halting 
words  with  kisses  and  appear  to  acquiesce  while  his  mind 
was  yet  afar.  But  that  day  was  past.  It  belonged  to  the 
spring  of  life  when  God  Himself  seemed  to  have  decreed 
that  kisses  were  a  part  of  the  substance  of  things.  Not  now. 
They  had  ceased  to  be  a  part  of  the  game.  But  what  she 
had  in  hand  for  him  was  neither  argument  nor  appeal.  It 
was  pure  amazed  assertion. 

"Everything  she  does  is  right  to  you,  every  single 
thing." 

Winterbourne  was  taken  by  assault.  Here  was  something 
that  sounded  like  accusation,  and  yet  the  partisanship  she 
chid  him  for  could  not  be  wrong. 

"  It  is  n't  a  sin  to  go  to  see  a  young  man,"  he  bade  her  re 
member,  speaking  mildly,  taking  up  his  book.  "  Not  here 
in  Clyde.  When  you  get  a  nymph  into  your  house,  a  crea 
ture  that  washes  off  her  conscience  every  day  in  mountain 


208      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

brooks,  why,  you  must  n't  corrupt  her  by  the  moth-eaten 
rules  of  a  blasted  old  world.  You  just  can't  do  it,  Cat." 

It  was  the  harum-scarum  name  he  had  called  her  in  mo 
ments  of  their  young  gayety  together,  but  it  could  not  move 
her  now.  She  was  seeing  how  she  had  been  wronged,  by 
nature,  by  the  chance  of  life.  Her  starved  being  was  perpet 
ually  on  its  knees  before  that  ineffable  picture  of  the  perfect 
love,  and  Winterbourne  seemed  her  tyrant  because  he  might 
have  completed  it  for  her  and  would  not  by  a  really  tender 
word. 

"  Shan't  I  look  out  for  her  ?  "  she  persisted,  rather  breath 
lessly.  "  Shan't  I  prevent  her  from  doing  the  things  nice 
young  girls  don't  do  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Winterbourne.  He  laid  down  his  book  again 
and  reminded  his  old  irritation  to  lie  low.  "  If  she 's  got  to  be 
a  nice  girl.  But  why  can't  you  let  her  be  what  she  is  ?  She 's 
as  clean  as  Venus  before  the  sea  waves  were  dried  off.  She's 
like  a  creature  made  out  of  the  earth  and  stuck  together  with 
honey,  and  given  fragrances  for  breath.  See  how  she  makes 
an  old  jaded  lingerer  like  me  sit  up  and  remember  his  poetry. 
She  's  divine,  Cat,  because  she  's  so  human.  She 's  all  service 
and  love  and  darlingness.  Don't  you  spoil  her.' 

He  had  given  rein  to  picturesque  simile  because  he  really 
wanted  very  much  to  show  her  how  desirable  it  would  be  to 
recognize  a  jewel  when  they  had  it. 

"You  don't  say  Celia's  divine,"  his  wife  reminded  him. 

A  little  red  spot  had  come  upon  each  cheek.  Her  eyes 
had  bright  points  in  them,  not  of  anger  but  of  many  passions 
blended.  Winterbourne  thought  he  might  be  about  to  return 
to  his  book,  and  laid  a  loving  hand  on  it. 

"  Celia  ! "  he  said.  The  tone  sounded  to  her  contemptuous, 
so  careless  was  it.  "  I  don't  know  what  Celia  is.  She  does  n't 
herself,  yet.  You've  moulded  her  and  pushed  and  pinched 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       209 

and  praised  and  reprimanded,  until  she  's  a  kind  of  model 
of  what  you  want  her  to  be.  She  's  no  more  like  what 's  in 
side  her  than  a  corset 's  like  a  figure.  The  other  girl 's  un 
touched/' 

"  She  pleases  you,"  his  wife  continued,  in  her  low  rapid 
voice,  that  seemed  to  hold  unspoken  accusation.  "  Every 
thing  she  does  is  right.  You  love  her." 

It  was  not  the  word.  That  might  reasonably  have  been 
used  to  indicate  a  man's  atmosphere  toward  even  an  adopted 
daughter.  The  tone  struck  him  in  the  face,  and  he  could  not 
look  at  her  for  the  shame  of  it.  But  he  had  to  look,  and  see 
ing  the  piteousness  of  her  agitation,  he  quieted  himself  and 
answered,  — 

"That's  a  big  word.  I  don't  like  such  big  words  every 
day." 

Her  face  quivered  into  grief. 

"  I  can't  please  you,"  she  lamented,  yet  softly  as  if  she  were 
afraid  to  err.  "I  thought  I  could  if  I  came  back.  I  never 
can." 

Winterbourne  sat  still,  his  strong  hands  tight  on  the  chair- 
arms,  thinking.  Suddenly  he  got  up  and  brought  a  seat  for 
her. 

"  Sit  down,  Catherine,"  he  said,  out  of  his  miserable  kind 
liness  toward  her.  "We  don't  want  to  talk  about  these  things. 
We  want  to  look  at  the  fire  in  the  winter  when  there  is  one. 
We  want  to  read  our  book  in  summer,  or  listen  to  the  leaves 
swishing.  That 's  what  belongs  to  our  time  of  life." 

But  not  to  hers,  he  knew,  and  her  soft  rebellious  face  told 
him.  She  had  not  had  all  her  life  as  women  count  it,  and  the 
broken  ideal  of  it  she  was  ever  holding  to  her  breast  and 
cherishing.  He  could  have  groaned  over  the  pity  of  it,  the 
futility. 

"  You  think  everything  she  does  is  right,"  she  insisted. 


210      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  Well,  everything  she  does  is  right,  pretty  nearly."  Then 
he  thought  she  had  not  cared  about  the  sliver  in  Dwight 
Hunter's  hand  and  chuckled  a  little  to  himself. 

(C  Celia  is  as  perfect  as  she  is." 

"Celia's  thinking  about  herself,"  said  Winterbourne. 
"  Don't  you  see  that 's  the  beauty  of  Bess  ?  She  never  thinks 
of  herself  for  a  minute.  Her  cheek 's  no  softer  than  Celia's. 
She  may  not  be  as  pretty,  but  she  's  on  the  side  of  nature, 
and  at  the  same  time  everlasting  righteousness." 

Catherine  sat  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  she  opened  her 
mouth  to  the  saying  he  had  heard  from  her  lips  the  day  they 
had  their  last  talk  before  she  went  abroad,  and  he  came  down 
here  to  his  solitude ;  it  was  incredible  that  she  should  ever 
say  that  thing  again.  There  had  been  no  answer  to  it  then, 
and  yet  it  had  hurt  them  both  so  boundlessly  that  he  could 
not  conceive  of  her  even  mustering  courage  to  break  that 
ground  a  second  time. 

"You  don't  love  me." 

"  Don't,  dear,"  he  said,  and  it  was  all  he  thought  he  could 
say. 

But  the  kind  word  liberated  her  tongue,  and  indeed  now 
she  had  passed  into  that  other  chamber  of  the  house  of  life 
where,  in  spite  of  temperance  and  reason,  old  wrongs  lift  up 
their  heads  and  claim  to  speak. 

"  Cat,"  said  Winterbourne, "  don't.  Look  here.  It 's  non 
sense  for  us  to  be  fighting  over  two  young  baggages  like 
these  of  yours,  as  if  it  made  any  difference  anyway  what  we 
thought  of  'em  or  what  we  did  n't.  They  '11  marry,  and  this 
place  shall  know  them  no  more.  I  only  tell  you  Bess  never 
thinks  of  herself —  and  see  where  it 's  led  us  ! " 

He  was  smiling  at  her  whole-heartedly,  every  nerve  in  him 
praying  her  not  to  suffer  any  more,  and  even  for  his  poor 
sake  to  go  to  bed  and  let  him  decline  upon  his  book  in 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       211 

peace.  But  she  was  looking  at  him  with  a  blurred,  wistful 
face. 

"  You  mean,"  she  mused,  "  it 's  what  George  Eliot  tells 
us.  Bess  has  learned  renunciation." 

"  My  Lord,  no  !  I  mean  she 's  a  part  of  the  natural  world. 
She's  got  sympathy.  She  sees  what  you  want  and  does  it. 
She  knows  I  want  my  dinner  in  peace  and  a  quiet  hour  with 
my  book.  If  she  could  do  the  pesky  God-forsaken  things 
you  want  her  to,  —  stand  up  in  a  long-tailed  gown  and  sing 
to  a  horde  of  people  that  don't  know  bad  air  when  they 
breathe  it,  —  she'd  even  do  that;  but  the  poor  devil!  she 
doesn't  know  how.  She  's  so  natural  that  when  you  put  her 
into  your  kaleidoscope  and  shake  it  up  round  her,  she  gets 
bemused." 

"  Yes,"  said  Catherine  to  herself  really  now,  "  you  love 
her." 

Winterbourne  felt  his  face  grow  hot,  and  he  put  a  hand 
impatiently  to  his  eyes,  as  if  in  an  instant  he  expected  sting 
ing  tears.  His  brain,  the  brain  that  gave  him  delight,  —  also 
some  other  part  of  him  within  that  always  told  him  it  was  the 
real  being  subservient  to  no  sense,  no  organ,  and  these  were 
all  his  servants,  —  his  brain  that  ran  about  over  the  natural 
world  and  brought  him  back  colors  and  scents  to  delight  in, 
asked  him  at  this  point  if  he  could  answer  her  when  she 
forced  upon  him  the  old  issue  —  love.  After  all,  what  did  he 
think  of  it  ?  It  was  easy  to  abjure  emotion,  but  when  it  came 
back  in  its  chariot,  overriding  caution  and  the  old  fear  of  it, 
what  was  it  anyway  but  a  savage  king  never  to  be  defeated, 
only  to  be  deflected  perhaps  and  leave  the  territory  unrav- 
aged,  and  grass  to  lift  its  head?  Winterbourne  had  thought 
he  was  going  to  be  actually  happy  in  his  middle  life,  even  in 
old  age,  and  now  that  Catherine  had  come  sweeping  back 
upon  him,  he  wished  she,  too,  might  be  happy.  He  laid  his 


212      JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY; 

hand  for  an  instant  on  hers  where  it  gripped  the  chair-arm 
in  a  nervous  tension. 

"  Cat,"  he  said,  "  there  are  a  lot  of  things  I  'd  like  to  tell 
you.  I  believe  I  Ve  learned  'em  before  you.  Maybe  you 
never  '11  learn  'em  at  all.  But  I  'd  like  to  tell  you." 

So  intimate  a  suggestion  drew  her  mind  nearer  him.  She 
quieted  her  wish  to  whimper  childishly,  and  listened.  But 
Winterbourne  could  not  at  once  speak.  His  mind  went  back 
over  all  he  had  read,  all  he  had  lived,  and  his  approach  to  a 
solving  of  this  terrible  discontent  the  human  creature  has  for 
another  creature  who,  it  assumes,  might  make  it  at  home  in 
these  fastnesses  of  an  alien  world.  Catherine  was  implying 
that  because  she  had  once  loved  him  she  could  love  him 
still ;  that  because  the  index  of  spring  had  pointed  to  him  as 
arbiter  of  the  sunniest  of  hours,  he  had  to  be  that  now  when 
the  dial  had  changed.  Vain  hope!  He  was  another  man,  she 
was  another  woman,  not  the  younglings  of  that  earlier  time, 
and  they  had  not  lived  together  through  those  common  tasks 
that  bind  human  souls  each  to  each.  But  all  he  was  feeling 
he  could  only  put  into  the  inapposite  statement,  — 

"  Catherine,  we  're  awfully  fragmentary." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  she  said,  listening  hope 
fully,  as  if  perhaps  he  meant  to  say  some  illuminating 
thing. 

Winterbourne  thought  of  the  old  simpler  peoples.  It 
seemed  to  him  reasonable  that  a  Greek  might  have  had  the 
vision  of  Diana  in  the  thicket  and  been  faithful  unto  the  death 
that  meant  Olympus  and  the  sight  of  the  goddess  face  to  face. 
But  here  in  this  modern  day  the  face  of  things  was  broken 
up  into  little  facets,  and  sometimes  they  reflect  one  light, 
sometimes  another,  until  we  tire  of  them  and  long  for  the 
russet  peace  of  autumn  days.  But  out  of  this  bog  he  had  to 
flounder  if  he  was  to  get  anywhere  at  all. 


JOHN  .WINTERBOURNE'S^  FAMILY      213 

"  Don't  tell  me  I  love  folks,"  he  said  whimsically.  "  I  just 
feel  kindly  toward  'em.  That 's  all  that 's  left  in  us  when 
we  're  tending  toward  fifty." 

"  It  ought  not  to  be  all  that 's  left,"  she  cried,  with  her  old 
wildness  of  rebuttal.  "  Things  ought  to  go  on  to  be  more 
and  more." 

"  But  they  don't,  child,  they  don't.  You  might  as  well  say 
my  eyes  ought  to  be  sharper  and  sharper — but  they  're  not. 
I  use  glasses,  and  when  I  lose  'em  I  swear  damnably  because 
I  can't  see  a  page." 

Catherine  remembered  a  solemn  word  used  a  great  deal  in 
the  lectures  and  reading  she  loved. 

"  You  talk,"  she  said,  "  as  if  the  soul  did  n't  exist." 

"  No,  I  don't.  Be  whipped  if  I  do,"  said  Winterbourne. 
He  ran  his  eloquent  fingers  through  his  brush  of  curling  hair. 
He  was  now  defending  what  he  believed  in  and  what  he  did 
love.  cc  But  the  soul  looks  through  a  great  many  windows 
here.  It  sees  a  good  many  colors.  It's  haunted  by  strange 
odors — the  ships  that  come  from  far,  Cat  —  the  souls  that 
sail  in  from  other  planets.  They  bring  these  things.  The 
soul,  she  sits  there  and  looks  out;  but  what  she  sees  she 
does  n't  want  to  possess,  not  if  she's  been  looking  out  a  good 
long  time.  Catherine,  I  am  forty-six  years  old.  I  'm  as  gnarled 
as  an  apple  tree.  Don't  you  act  as  if  I  were  a  lilac  in  bloom. 

I'  A-      " 

m  not. 

Most  of  this  was  misty  enough  to  her,  but  she  returned 
to  the  question  in  hand. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  she  said.  "You  look  at  Bess  as  if  she 
were  another  lilac-bush  in  bloom.  You  love  to  have  her  in 
the  room  with  you.  You  turn  to  her  for  every  single  thing 
you  want." 

"  Why,  God  bless  me,  of  course  I  do !  "  said  Winterbourne, 
in  an  extreme  of  irritation.  "  It 's  like  having  a  bunch  of  roses 


2i4       JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

in  the  room.   Besides,  she  understands  me.   I  understand  her, 
The  girl 's  as  immediate  to  me  as  my  own  hand." 

Then  he  saw  what  he  had  done.  Catherine  got  up,  and 
stood  a  moment,  her  white  face  toward  him.  The  eyes  did 
not  seem  to  reproach  him,  or  to  bid  him  mark  their  dis 
tended  misery. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said. 

*  She  seemed  to  melt  away.  Winterbourne  sat  there  looking 
into  the  grate  where  the  fire  might  have  been.  He  was  dis 
gusted,  all  through,  with  his  rash  habit  of  speech,  with  a  life 
that  so  classified  as  to  leave  the  unclassified  no  chance  to 
exist  in  decency. 

"  There  's  something,"  he  said,  "  to  spoil  every  damned 
thing." 

He  did  not  think  he  had  sat  there  a  long  time,  though  he 
was  not  reading,  when  there  was  a  little  stir  beside  him.  He 
looked  up.  Bess  was  there.  When  she  got  to  her  own  room 
she  had  sat  down  by  the  window  to  coax  back  her  peace  of  mind, 
because  there  was  no  great  pleasure  in  praying  when  you  had 
probably  committed  sin.  And  now  here  she  was  at  his  side, 
looking  at  him  with  kind  eyes  that  always  had  a  petition  in 
them,  the  prayer  that  they  might  do  something  for  him. 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  you,  sir,"  she  said,  "  if  you  think  I  Ve 
done  wrong.  I  want  to  be — "  she  hesitated  over  the  word, 
it  meant  so  many  strictures  and  hatefulnesses,  and  then 
brought  it  out  with  a  gulp  —  ua  lady." 

There  she  stood,  still  holding  him  with  those  beseeching 
eyes.  Winterbourne  looked  into  them  for  a  long  moment. 
They  seemed  to  him  like  wells  of  comfort  where  a  man  might 
wash  himself  of  offence,  if  he  were  conscious  of  it.  But  there 
was  no  need  of  his  bathing  there,  to  come  out  clean.  She 
was,  as  he  had  said  in  that  hurried  moment,  as  immediate  to 
him  as  his  own  hand,  but  how  sweeter  than  all  the  roses  of 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       215 

all  the  Junes,  —  a  rose  of  heaven  for  him.  He  wanted  to  say 
a  great  many  things  to  her,  now  that  she  had  been  thrown 
by  his  forced  declaration  into  such  communion  with  him. 
He  wanted  to  ask  her  whether  she,  too,  did  not  wish  they 
were  innocent,  free  creatures  by  some  inland  sea,  uninhabited 
by  these  phantasms  of  an  artificial  world.  But  waking,  he 
said  to  her  gravely,  — 

"You  are  a  lady,  Bess." 

Her  eyes  interrogated  him.  She  also  had  evidently  a  little 
explanation  to  make. 

"I  wish  I  could  be  —  what  she  wants  me  to." 

This  was  either  tribute  to  Catherine's  ideals  or  an  avowal 
of  affection  for  her.  Winterbourne  was  pretty  sure  it  was  not 
the  last. 

"Bess,"  said  he,  "want  to  have  a  secret  with  me?  " 

Her  face  went  all  over  a  sweet  bloom.  She  answered  ra 
diantly,— 

"Yes,  sir." 

!  "I'll  tell  you.  When  you  do  anything  I  don't  think 
they  '11  like,  I  '11  give  you  a  hint  of  it." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  she  answered  fervently. 

It  seemed  to  Winterbourne  that  turn  about  would  sweeten 
discipline. 

"And  when  I  'm  cantankerous,  you  tell  me." 

"  You  never  are,"  she  assured  him,  in  a  voice  the  sweet 
flattery  of  which  was  its  honesty.  "  You  're  just  right." 

Winterbourne  shook  his  head  at  her.  That  issue  he  could 
not  stay  to  combat. 

"  And  when  I  tell  you  or  you  tell  me,"  he  continued,  his 
smiling  eyes  full  upon  her,  "you '11  say  it 's  because  we 've 
got  a  secret.  Know  what  the  secret 's  going  to  be,  Bess  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

She  longed  to  know.   Her  glowing  look  told  him. 


2i6      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  The  secret  is,"  —  he  spoke  with  an  impressiveness  kept 
ordinarily  for  Tonty,  —  "  the  secret  is  that  I  'm  going  to  take 
you  for  my  daughter,  and  you're  going  to  take  me  for  your 
venerable  daddy." 

He  was  amazed  at  the  effect  on  her.  She  seemed  to  be  on 
tiptoe  with  delight. 

"  Shall  I  call  you  anything/'  she  breathed,  —  "anything 
different  ?  " 

"No,  simpleton,  of  course  not.  Don't  I  tell  you  it's  a 
secret?  Wouldn't  that  give  it  away  ?  No  —  though  some 
times  if  we  were  in  a  great  prairie  or  a  desert —  Know  where 
Sahara  is,  Bess  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  answered  dutifully.  "  It 's  in  Africa." 

"Well,  if  we  were  there,  and  there  wasn't  the  leastest 
chance  of  anybody's  hearing  us,  except  it  was  an  ostrich 
maybe,  you  could  just  whisper,  c  Daddy,'  and  I  'd  whisper, 
'What  is  it,  kiddie?'" 

Anything  like  the  warm  delight  of  her  face  he  had  not  seen. 
It  came  upon  him  that  two  most  blessed  things  had  happened : 
Bess  adored  him  "  beyond  beyond,"  and  the  little  game  had 
snatched  her  at  one  leap  out  of  her  lonesomeness. 

"Is  Celia— "  she  began. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  No.  I  've  got  just  one  only  kid.  Celia  must  n't  even 
know  it.  Good-night,  kiddie." 

He  spoke  the  word  in  the  merest  whisper,  a  moving  of  the 
lips. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said. 

When  she  was  at  the  door  he  waved  a  hand  to  her.  His 
eyes  felt  hot.  So  slight  a  thing  had  changed  her  into  the  gay 
and  glowing  creature  youth  should  be.  Then  he  sat  there  a 
long  time,  not  with  his  book  but  his  inmost  self.  He  had  be 
gun  to  wonder  whether  it  had  all  got  to  begin  again,  the  thing 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      217 

he  hated  so  he  thought  he  had  got  rid  of  it  —  what  he  called 
responsibility.  For  he  had  known  in  his  soul  for  a  long  time 
that  when  he  said  he  was  leaving  the  world  that  he  might 
translate  Theocritus,  he  had  been  leaving  it  because  he 
thought  the  world  and  he  might  very  well  do  without  each 
other.  But  now  the  burdens  —  none  of  them  tragic,  but  little 
parcels  you  might  bring  home  from  market  —  were  piling  on 
his  back.  There  was  no  peace  save  in  the  upper  sky,  and 
there  you  could  n't  breathe. 


XVII 

BEFORE  dawn  Bess  heard  a  tapping  at  her  door.  She 
thought  she  was  in  the  tavern,  called,  while  the  kind 
liness  of  sleep  engulfed  her,  to  speed  some  drummer 
on  his  way. 

"  In  a  minute,"  said  she,  while  she  set  her  feet,  tranced  like 
the  rest  of  her,  on  the  floor  and  put  her  hands  to  her  shut 
eyes.  But  the  knockings  continued, at  little  nervous  intervals ; 
and  they,  the  character  of  them  and  the  look  of  her  room, 
told  her  she  was  in  this  new  phase  of  life  where  heaven  alone 
knew  what  eccentric  needs  would  summon  her. 

She  went  to  the  door,  and  there  Catherine  in  her  night 
gown  stood  shuddering  with  recurrent  spasms.  Her  face  had 
a  blank,  draggled  pallor  as  if  she  had  scarcely  slept,  and  her 
eyes  were  staring.  The  years,  almost  effaced  by  day  when 
she  called  upon  the  framing  of  pretty  gowns  and  exquisite 
toilet  arts  to  help  her,  were  here,  straggling  their  marks  all 
over  her  face,  the  pathetic  map  of  life. 

"  I  'm  afraid,"  she  said. 

Bess  for  an  instant  stood  looking  at  her,  wondering  whether 
to  snatch  her  into  her  own  warm  bed ;  but  that  seemed  a 
liberty  toward  a  lady  who  was,  to  her  humility,  unap 
proachable.  So  she  put  an  arm  about  her  softly,  yet  with 
determination,  and  turned  with  her  toward  Catherine's 
chamber. 

"  It 's  early,"  she  said.  "  You  come  back  to  bed." 

"  Don't  wake  Celia,"  Catherine  whispered  as  they  passed 
Celia's  door.  "Don't  wake  him." 

When  she  was  in   her  bed,  and  Bess  had  drawn   up  a 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      219 

blanket  to  shield  her  from  the  cold  of  dawn,  she  lay  with 
her  eyes  fixed  solemnly  on  the  girl  and  said  again,  — 

"  I  'm  afraid." 

"  You  lie  still,"  said  Bess.  "  I  'm  going  to  get  you  some 
thing." 

Catherine's  eyes  seemed  to  beseech  her  not  to  go,  but  Bess, 
with  her  air  of  knowing  what  errands  she  had  to  do,  had 
walked  out  of  the  room.  Catherine  heard  her  hastening  down 
the  stairs.  In  ten  minutes,  perhaps,  she  was  back  with  a  cup 
of  hot  milk,  and  Catherine  shook  her  head  on  the  pillow. 

"I  don't  want  that,"  she  said. 

Bess  only  slipped  an  arm  under  her. 

"  You  need  something  inside  you,"  she  stated,  and  put  the 
cup  to  her  lips. 

So  Catherine  drank,  but  as  she  lay  back,  she  said  again, 
as  if  unmoved  in  a  conviction, — 

"  I  'm  afraid." 

Bess  had  run  her  arms  into  a  wrapper,  and  now  she  sat 
down,  the  yellow  folds  of  it  falling  beautifully  about  her. 

"Aren't  you  surprised?"  Catherine  interrogated  her. 
"  Did  you  ever  see  a  grown-up  woman  afraid  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Bess,  beginning  to  plait  the  curling  ends  of 
her  brown  braid.  "  You  go  to  sleep  now,  and  I  '11  sit  here. 
When  you  wake  up,  you  won't  be  afraid." 

"Yes,  I  shall,"  said  Catherine.  "  I  haven't  slept  all  night. 
Why  should  you  think  I  can  sleep  now?  " 

"  Did  you  say  your  prayers  ?  "  asked  Bess,  with  simplicity. 

The  unheard-of  challenge  startled  Catherine  out  of  her 
panic,  to  pure  wonder. 

"  What  makes  you  ask  that?  "  she  queried. 

"  I  thought  maybe  you  'd  better  say  'em  now,"  said  Bess 
with  the  same  air  of  referring  the  matter  to  an  ordinary 
remedy.  "  That 's  all." 


220      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  Do  you  say  your  prayers?"  Catherine  countered. 

"Yes." 

"  I  did  n't  know  you  were  a  churchwoman."  Human  curi 
osity  and  hot  milk  were  working  a  momentary  wholesome 
change  in  her. 

"  I  don't  go  to  meeting  very  often/'  said  Bess.  "  I  don't 
care  much  about  it." 

"  Then  what  prayers  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  say  <  Now  I  lay  me.'  That 's  all  I  know." 

Catherine  simply  stared  at  her.  But  Bess  had  put  her  head 
back  against  the  grandfather  chair  and  closed  her  eyes.  The 
lashes  were  very  thick  and  long.  Perhaps  her  broken  lethargy 
was  returning  upon  her;  it  might  be  she  was  willing  to  lull 
Catherine  by  a  good  example.  Catherine  watched  her  for  a 
while  in  a  jealous  questioning.  She  could  not  help  wonder 
ing  how  it  would  seem  to  have  such  a  velvet  surface  and  such 
curves  of  the  upper  lip.  How  would  it  feel  to  be  so  singularly 
endowed  that  John  Winterbourne  could  say,  "She  is  as  im 
mediate  to  me  as  my  own  hand  "  ?  Yet  it  had  to  be  accepted 
that  Bess  was,  in  the  nature  of  her,  essential  to  her  also,  in 
her  need.  She  had  a  pained  sense  of  the  girl's  triumphing 
youth  and  some  peculiar  quality  that  made  her  at  one  with  life. 
It  hurt  her  inconceivably  to  see  her  husband  turning,  though 
so  unconsciously  and  with  such  honest  clarity,  to  that  whole 
some  serviceableness ;  yet  it  had  bred  in  her  no  rancor  against 
Bess.  And  here,  in  her  own  extremity,  she  also  was  seeking 
her,  because  Bess  mysteriously  had  help  and  would  give  it. 

With  the  light  and  perhaps  the  consciousness  of  scrutiny, 
Bess  awoke  and  seemed  to  gather  in  the  situation  anew. 
Then  she  smiled  down  at  Catherine  slightly  but -most  natu 
rally,  as  if  difficulties  gave  her  an  especial  pleasure. 

"You  lie  still,"  she  said.  "  I  'm  going  to  dress  me,  and  then 
I  '11  bring  your  breakfast." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S  FAMILY      221 

"  No,"  said  Catherine  perversely,  the  idea  of  requiring  ex 
traordinary  service  suddenly,  now  it  was  stated,  repugnant  to 
her.  "  Send  Lyddy."  But  this  was  knowing  Lyddy  would 
not  come. 

"  You  lie  still,"  said  Bess  again.  "  I  'm  going   to   dress 


me." 


A  little  later,  for  she  was  always  to  the  fore  with  break 
fast,  lest  Lyddy  had  foundered  by  the  way,  and  this  morn 
ing  there  was  no  time  for  dallying  and  choosing  among  crisp 
prettinesses,  she  was  in  the  kitchen,  and  Lyddy,  loosely  drift 
ing  back  and  forth  on  her  efficient  errands  between  table  and 
stove,  turned  to  look  with  sardonic  disapproval  at  the  little 
tray  she  was  making  comely. 

"Cat's  foot!"  said  Lyddy.  "Who's  got  the  pip?  You 
better  by  half  set  down  here  an'  eat  your  own  breakfast. 
Fever  de  lurks,  that's  what's  up  chamber  —  two  stomachs 
to  eat  an'  nary  one  to  work." 

But  Bess  was  absorbed.  She  need  n't  answer,  because 
Lyddy  was  now  hers  without  conciliation.  She  carried  up  the 
tray  and  packed  Catherine  about  with  pillows,  so  engrossed 
in  swift  efficiency  that  there  was  no  use  in  checking  her.  She 
caused  the  breakfast  to  be  eaten,  and  then  put  the  patient 
back  again  into  her  nest  and  adjured  her  with  authority  to 
stay  there  until  she  should  come  again.  Then,  having  car 
ried  down  the  tray  and  eaten  her  own  breakfast,  she  looked 
about  for  Winterbourne  and  spied  him  in  the  back  garden, 
where  he  was  surveying  the  world  with  the  air  of  one  who 
meant  presently  to  do  something  in  it. 

Winterbourne  had  had  his  morning  smoke,  which  was  not 
actually  the  same  as  his  after-breakfast  one ;  and  because  the 
earth  looked  kindly  to  him,  he  was  about  to  take  out  his  pipe 
to  add  one  zest  more.  To  him  appeared  Bess,  bareheaded, 
and  comely  as  the  morning.  She  seemed  to  furnish  another 


222      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

reason.  But  her  first  address  stopped  his  hand  midway  in  the 
quest  for  his  tobacco-pouch. 

"  Your  wife  's  broken  down,"  said  she  briefly. 

He  stared  at  her,  and  she  repeated  it. 

"  Broken  down  ? "  Winterbourne  questioned.  "  Don't  talk 
as  if  she  was  a  shay." 

That  was  Greek  to  her,  and  again  she  made  her  statement, 
unaltered. 

"  How  do  you  know  ? "  Winterbourne  inquired.  "  Did  she 
tell  you?" 

"  No,  sir,  but  I  've  seen  her  and  she  says  she 's  afraid." 

"  Afraid  of  what  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir.  But  she  is,  and  that's  the  way  they 
are  sometimes." 

"  Why,  you  preternaturally  wise  young  simpleton,  you 
babe  and  suckling,"  he  interrogated  her,  yet  struck  so  palpably 
by  her  solemn  assertiveness  that  he  tucked  the  pouch  back 
into  his  pocket  and  kept  only  the  pipe  for  company,  "  where 
did  you  learn  to  be  a  medical  man?  Was  Hippocrates  your 
uncle?  How's  old  Galen?" 

"  I  don't  know  them,  sir,"  said  Bess,  more  rapidly  and  still 
cogently  because  she  thought  Catherine  might  be  wanting 
her.  "  But  I  Ve  seen  a  good  many  ladies  just  like  this.  They 
break  down,  ladies  do." 

"Where  did  you  see  'em,  Hop-o'-my-Thumb  ? " 

"  One  season  I  worked  in  the  sanatorium,  the  year  there 
was  the  fire  in  the  tavern  and  we  had  to  shut  down.  They 
came  to  get  ozone."  She  spoke  as  if  it  might  be  something 
from  the  bargain-counter. 

"What's  ozone?"  Winterbourne  asked,  his  eyes  all 
points  of  fun  and  the  crinkles  about  them  interlacing. 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,  but  they  said  it  was  there  and  the  ladies 
came  to  get  it." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       223 

"  Did  you  like  being  there,  you  trumpery  barmaid,  mix 
ing  your  ozone  and  serving  it  out  by  the  glass  ? " 

4C  Not  very  well.   But  what  I  was  going  to  say  —  " 

"  Why  did  n't  you  like  it?  " 

She  answered  now  to  the  point,  seeing  there  was  no  switch 
ing  him  off  until  that  issue  was  put  by. 

"  There  was  a  good  deal  of  complaint.  They  were  pretty 
nervous.  And  they  wanted  to  give  you  fees/' 

"  Wanted  to  give  me  fees  ?  " 

"Me,  sir.  When  I  did  things  for  'em." 

"  Did  you  like  that,  Bess?  " 

The  brown  eyes  opened  on  him  in  a  mild  surprise. 

"Why,  I  didn't  take  'em,  sir.   I  had  my  regular  wages." 

Winterbourne  slapped  his  leg  and  crowed. 

"  Athena,  listen  to  her  !  "  he  adjured  the  upper  air.  "  She 's 
your  own  girl.  Why  did  n't  you  take  'em  ?" 

She  was  getting  impatient  now,  her  errand  all  undone. 

"  Why,  sir,  I  told  you.  I  had  my  regular  wages.  But  what 
I  was  going  to  say,  if  you  send  for  the  doctor,  he  '11  tell  her 
she  's  got  to  lie  still  maybe  for  a  year." 

So  vividly  was  last  night  present  to  Winterbourne's  con 
sciousness  that  he  might  have  been  forgiven  if  his  mind,  that 
errant  servitor,  suggested,  in  a  burst  of  reckless  comment, 
that  it  did  not  in  the  least  shrink  from  such  a  prospect.  But 
what  he  said  was, — 

"Good  God!" 

"  So  I  thought  if  maybe  you'd  just  encourage  her  to  lie 
abed  mornings  and  then  get  up  and  kind  of  take  her  mind 
off  herself — why,  that  would  be  the  best.  There's  no  need 
of  their  lying  abed  a  year,  sir.  It  does  'em  harm  in  the  end." 

She  looked  so  earnest  with  her  calm  eyes  fixed  upon  him 
in  the  convincingness  of  her  part,  so  sweet  all  through  with 
her  hair  blowing  about  her  pretty  face,  that,  in  spite  of  the 


224       JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

mysterious  ill-fortune  that  had  befallen  his  wife,  Winter- 
bourne  could  have  burst  out  into  great  laughter.  Bess  always 
affected  him  so,  in  a  differing  ratio.  Sometimes  he  wanted  to 
laugh  at  her,  she  was  so  queer,  sometimes  tenderly,  she  was 
such  a  little  fool.  But  she  always  challenged  mirth. 

"  I  'm  going  in  now/'  she  said.   "  You  encourage  her." 

"  Where  's  Celia  ?  Has  she  got  cracked  or  frayed  or  broken 
since  I  saw  her  yesterday?" 

"She's  sleeping  late.  There's  Tonty,  Mr.  Winterbourne. 
I  guess  she's  looking  for  you." 

Tonty  was  coming  wandering  out  at  the  back  door  by 
which  Lyddy  had  sent  her  to  find  Jackie.  She  looked  like 
a  little  girl  out  of  a  good  book,  with  the  long  hair  she  had 
painstakingly  curled  in  the  habit  of  an  older  time,  — because 
mother's  hair  in  the  picture  was  curled  just  so, —  and  a  large 
hat  in  her  hand.  Her  dear  little  face,  with  its  pointed  chin, 
had  its  usual  gravity,  and  it  was  apparent  she  had  come  to 
deliver  a  message. 

"  Jackie,"  she  said. 

"What  say.  Dame  Partlet?"  Winterbourne  responded, 
making  her  a  bow.  That  she  liked.  He  did  it  so  gravely  there 
was  no  derision  in  it. 

"  Mother  said  I  was  to  tell  you  she  had  broken  down." 

Winterbourne  looked  at  Bess.  There  was  terror  in  his 
glance. 

"Is  this  a  world-wide  calamity?"  he  inquired  of  her. 
"  Are  ladies  falling  in  fragments  about  us  ?  " 

Bess  was  paying  no  attention  to  him.  This  was  her  pro 
vince.  He  was  the  helpless  male. 

"Where  is  mother?"  she  asked  Tonty  confidentially. 

"  In  bed  with  a  lot  of  papers.   She  's  broken  down." 

"It's  no  use,  Bess,"  said  Winterbourne.  "It's  no  man 
ner  of  use.  I  shall  be  daffy  if  I  hear  any  more  of  these  things. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      225 

You  take  Tonty  in  and  give  her  some  lemon-pie  or  some 
thing,  and  I'll  go  clamming." 

Tonty  brightened  at  the  reference  to  lemon-pie,  but  Bess 
had  taken  her  hand. 

"I'll  go  back  with  her,"  she  said.  "Come,  Tonty.  I'm 
going  to  see  mother." 

That  struck  Tonty  as  being  unnecessary,  apparently,  until 
she  had  the  lemon-pie,  and  she  looked  back,  wistful  and  re- 
mindingly  at  Jackie  who  had  prescribed  it.  He  watched  them 
away,  but  when  they  were  outside  the  gate  he  followed  with 
a  couple  of  strides. 

"  Did  n't  mother  say  anything  more,  Tonty  ? "  he  be 
sought. 

"  No.  She  said  I  was  to  tell  you  she  'd  broken  down." 

Winterbourne  stood  there  in  the  road  and  watched  them 
away.  He  knew  he  ought  to  go  in  and  see  Catherine, — 
the  shards  of  her,  at  least,  —  but  he  was  afraid  to.  And  why 
—  why  —  his  dazed  intelligence  asked  him,  if  Anna  Clayton 
Ramsay  had  flown  into  a  million  pieces  did  she  send  the 
news  of  it  to  him  like  the  message  of  ill  to  Cleopatra  ? 

"  It 's  my  damned  good-nature,"  he  grumbled. 

Then  he  thought  for  a  moment  of  the  duties  of  life  and 
how,  wearisome  as  they  were,  he  meant  to  tackle  them,  and 
at  the  same  minute  saw  Dwight  Hunter  in  his  ample  cart 
driving  off  for  sea-weed. 

"  Hi !  "  said  Winterbourne. 

Hunter  stopped,  and  Winterbourne  mounted  beside  him 
and  drove  off  into  the  shining  day,  as  care-free  as  a  boy 
going  swimming  against  orders.  But  he  did  not  drive  so 
irretrievably  far  that  conscience  was  drugged  indeed.  In  the 
midst  of  a  paean  from  Dwight  about  the  old  furniture  that 
went  for  a  song  down  the  valley  yesterday,  he  heaved  a  sigh. 

"  Draw  up,  Dwight,"  he  bade  him.  "  I  Ve  got  to  get  out." 


226      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  Forgot  something  ?  "  asked  Hunter,  doing  it. 

£C  Yes.  Forgot  my  manners,  forgot  my  decency.  Good- 
by,  old  man." 

Then  Dwight  drove  on,  and  Winterbourne  betook  him 
self,  muttering,  along  the  road  to  Mrs.  Ramsay's. 

Tonty  could  not  be  persuaded  to  talk  when  she  and  Bess 
set  forth,  and  so  Bess  gave  up  the  task  of  setting  her  at  ease, 
and  they  went  on  together  in  the  silence  that  is  sometimes 
ease  itself.  Tonty's  Tittle  heart  instantly  felt  lighter.  She 
found  it  quite  difficult  to  converse  except  with  Jackie,  and 
it  seemed  to  her  a  beautiful  lady  who  went  along  humming 
and  showed  no  interest  in  her  going  to  school  or  her  taste  in 
kittens.  At  the  front  door  three  other  little  figures  were  in 
line  to  meet  them,  -  -  Tony  with  a  tier  buttoned,  in  defiance 
of  its  nature,  in  front,  —  this  because,  in  the  family  troubles 
of  the  morning,  he  had  manfully  dressed  himself.  Tonty 
noted  that  badge  of  haste  and  waved  a  hand  to  him,  a  signal 
to  hide  himself  behind  the  more  properly  apparelled ;  but 
Tony  stood  still  with  his  hand  on  the  hoe-handle  which  was 
this  morning  his  comforter,  and  Bess  with  her  little  guide 
passed  them  and  went  on  to  Mrs.  Ramsay's  room. 

It  was  a  big  room  in  the  front  of  the  house,  with  dark  fur 
niture  of  the  wrong  period,  of  a  large  uncouthness  and  much 
be-knobbed.  The  great  bed  had  been  slept  in,  and  the  circu 
lar  untidy  nest  of  its  occupant  showed  that  she  had  not  gone 
through  the  rite  of  opening  it  to  the  air.  Bess,  seeing  this 
lair  of  the  escaped  lady,  was  about  to  ask  Tonty  where  they 
should  look  for  her  next,  when  there  on  a  sofa,  the  floor 
under  it  stuffed  with  papers,  her  bonnet  on  and  unhappily 
askew,  they  saw  her.  One  glove  even  was  on.  Her  bag,  dis 
gorging  papers,  was  at  her  side  slumped  under  one  arm. 

Bess  on  the  way  to  her  had  time  to  feel  that  the  room 
was  a  chaos  of  papers  and  that  it  ought  to  be  cleared  out. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      227 

There  were  papers  on  the  table,  a  package  on  the  wash- 
stand  even  between  bowl  and  pitcher,  and  a  ragged-edged 
pile  of  them  along  one  wall,  these  yellowed  from  long  life, 
the  folds  brown  with  dust.  Bess,  who  had  done  a  great  deal 
of  cleaning  in  her  short  day,  could  have  told  you  what  a 
sneezy  job  it  would  have  been  to  reorganize  that  treasured 
litter.  It  was  almost  possible  to  wonder  how  one  could  have 
slept  in  the  room  on  a  breezy  night  with  the  window  open, 
for  the  rustling  of  so  much  disengaged  matter  of  leaves. 
When  Bess  stood  at  her  side,  Mrs.  Ramsay  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Go  away,  Tonty,"  she  said  distinctly,  and  Tonty,  with 
a  fear  upon  her,  went.  "  There  's  no  reason  why  the  child 
should  be  frightened,"  Mrs.  Ramsay  continued,  shutting  her 
eyes  again  after  a  recognizing  look  at  Bess.  "  Fear  is  the  one 
tyrant." 

Bess,  with  an  instinct  that  she  must  look  too  tall  for 
kindness  to  the  prostrate  figure  on  the  sofa,  drew  up  a  chair, 
itself  the  repository  of  papers,  and  placed  herself  on  the  edge 
of  it,  not  invading  their  sovereignty. 

"I  sent  for  Mr.  Winterbourne,"  said  Mrs.  Ramsay.  She 
spoke  with  a  deliberate  care  that  evidently  cost  her  a  good 
deal.  "  I  wanted  to  tell  him  my  son  —  I  can't  remember  his 
name  —  " 

"Tim?" 

"  I  think  so.  My  son  has  gone  to  the  city  this  morning 
with —  I  can't  remember  the  name." 

"  With  his  father  ?  " 

"  With  something  that  belongs  to  Mr.  Winterbourne.  I 
can  remember  Mr.  Winterbourne's  name.  Why  can't  I  re 
member  the  names  I  can't  remember  ?  " 

"  You  'd  better  stop  trying.  You  'd  better  go  to  sleep," 
said  Bess,  snatching  for  a  comparison,  out  of  her  serviceable 
memory  of  the  lady  at  the  sanatorium  who  could  n't  find  the 


228      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

names  of  things  she  wanted,  and  was  forced  to  decline  upon 
makeshifts  until  she  had  become  sufficiently  heartened  on 
ozone  to  begin  words  over  again. 

But  Mrs.  Ramsay  was  paying  no  attention  to  hygienic 
promptings. 

"  The  thing  my  son  has  carried  is  very  important  to  Mr. 
Winterbourne  —  "  she  asserted.  "  What  do  you  think  it 
could  be?" 

"  If  it 's  anything  he  's  borrowed/'  Bess  ventured  at  ran 
dom,  "  he  '11  return  it  all  right." 

"  No,  it 's  not  that.  He  has  n't  borrowed  it.  He  has  —  " 
Her  brows  contracted  over  the  memory  of  some  past  shock 
or  trouble.  "  What  do  you  think  it  could  be  ?  A  nutmeg- 
grater?  Is  that  it?  Is  it  black-silk  mitts  ?  Does  that  sound 
right  to  you  ?  " 

Bess,  in  time  of  sick  minds,  could  invent  gloriously  and 
swear  to  the  invention  of  anybody  else. 

"  Either  of  'em  would  do,"  she  assured  Mrs.  Ramsay. 
"  You  shut  your  eyes  now.  I  '11  tell  him." 

"  Tell  him  something  must  be  done,"  Mrs.  Ramsay  ad 
jured  her.  "  If  he  does  n't  look  out,  the  circingle  will  be 
sold."  And  then  she  did  shut  her  eyes,  and  Bess  might 
have  thought  she  was  resting  except  for  her  knitted  brows 
and  the  moving  of  her  mouth. 

Bess  got  softly  out  of  her  chair,  and  Mrs.  Ramsay  opened 
her  eyes  at  the  rustle,  and  said  clearly,  — 

cc  There  's  one  thing  more.  I  want  to  tell  you  why  I  am 
sure  I  've  broken  down.  You  don't  notice  it,  of  course, 
but  I  can't  remember.  When  I  try  to  remember  a  word,  it 
looks  like  an  ink-eraser  —  the  kind  with  the  band  round  the 
middle." 

"  I  '11  get  you  a  glass  of  water,"  said  Bess. 

She  went  downstairs  to  the  kitchen,  where  the  little  maid, 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      229 

like  one  impelled  upon  a  mission  imperfectly  understood 
but  acquiesced  in,  was  washing  dishes  with  the  air  of  having 
done  it  ever  since  Bess  had  seen  her  last.  No,  she  did  n't 
know  anything  about  Mrs.  Ramsay's  not  feeling  well.  Mrs. 
Ramsay  'd  had  her  breakfast  with  her  bonnet  on,  same  as 
she  always  did,  to  take  the  eight-thirteen.  She  did  n't  see 
her  go  out,  but  then  she  was  busy  washing  the  dishes.  No, 
she  guessed  Mary  was  n't  coming  back  to  cook.  Mary  'd  had 
a  dreadful  time  with  her  liver  and  her  tubes  going  on  a  year 
now.  She  said  she  'd  have  left  long  ago  if  it  had  n't  been  for 
the  children.  So  Bess  went  back  home  with  her  budget  of 
news,  and  met  Winterbourne  by  the  way. 

"  Well  ? "  said  he,  standing  still  under  the  big  ash  tree 
while  she  also  paused.  "  Well,  Atlas,  what  do  you  make 
of  it?" 

The  name  puzzled  her,  —  why  should  she  be  called  a 
school  book  ?  —  but  she  could  n't  stop  for  that. 

"  It 's  true  what  Tonty  said,"  she  told  him,  with  unmoved 
directness.  "Her  mother's  broken  down." 

Winterbourne  stood  looking  at  her  for  a  full  minute 
while  she  met  his  gaze  as  squarely,  her  own  only  seeming  to 
ask  him  if  he  wanted  to  know  anything  more. 

"  Bess,"  said  he,  "  have  you  by  accident  a  sense  of  humor 
about  you  ?  " 

"What,  sir?" 

"  Could  you  roll  on  the  ground  and  scream,  if  you  weren't 
afraid  of  mussing  your  frock,  because  this  old  world 's  so 
funny  ?  Or  does  it  seem  to  you  a  perfectly  natural  and  simple 
thing  for  two  ladies  in  one  morning  to  announce  that  they  Ve 
broken  down?  Speak  up,  Oracle.  I  Ve  got  to  know." 

"  I  suppose  they  might  as  well  break  down  the  same 
morning  as  different  mornings,"  said  Bess  practically.  "  It 's 
just  something  that  happens  to  you,  same  as  a  cold  would 


23o      JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

be.  Lots  of  folks  have  colds  the  same  day.  Mr.  Winter- 
bourne,  do  you  think  the  Ramsays  have  any  money  ?  " 

"  I  think  they  're  poor  as  barley  soup.  I  think  Ramsay  '11 
blow  the  top  of  his  head  off  some  day,  if  he  ever  sits  down 
to  consider  how  he  's  going  to  provide  for  his  children  and 
his  wife  and  his  old  waterlogged  craft." 

"  Then,  Mr.  Winterbourne,"  said  Bess,  with  a  resolution 
she  had  evidently  no  least  thought  of  his  gainsaying,  "  we  've 
got  to  take  Mrs.  Ramsay  over  to  your  house  for  a  month  or 
so,  till  we  see  how  it's  going  to  turn." 

"Take  Anna  Clayton  Ramsay  into  my  house?"  he  pelted 
at  her.  "You  young  basilisk,  do  you  know  what  you're 
saying?" 

"It's  all  the  way  I  see,"  she  remarked,  also,  it  was  evi 
dent,  sending  her  mind  skirmishing  about  to  guess  whether 
there  might  not  indeed  prove  to  be  expedients  that  pleased 
him  better.  "  Then  that  little  Harriet  could  take  some  care 
of  the  children,  and  I  could  take  care  of  Mrs.  Ramsay  and 
your  wife,  same  time." 

"  My  father  Jupiter! "  Winterbourne  broke  out.  He  took 
off  his  hat  and  looked  up  into  the  clear  sky.  "Artemis,  do 
you  hear?  Cytherea,  here  is  a  maiden  that  ought  to  belong 
to  you  alone  —  do  you  hear,  you  trumpery  old  second-hand 
lot  of  Olympians?  What  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

Bess  was  looking  at  him  in  concern.  His  suffused  fore 
head,  the  veins  starting  out  on  it  in  picturesque  meandering, 
the  light  in  his  bright  eyes  —  these  seemed  to  her  like  a  dis 
proportionate  madness. 

"Don't  you  feel  well,  sir?"  she  inquired.  "Why  don't 
you  put  your  hat  on  ?  It's  a  warm  day." 

Winterbourne  stared  at  her  for  an  instant  of  entire  joy  in 
one  so  impervious  to  Fortune's  ironies.  He  broke  into  a 
great  laugh  and  did  replace  his  hat. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY  t    231 

"Bess,"  said  he,  "I  would  rather  couch  with  the  Ne- 
mean  lion,  I  would  crawl  into  the  mouth  of  the  horny  croc 
odile  and  read  my  Homer  there,  rather  than  admit  Anna 
Clayton  Ramsay  to  my  hearthstone.  Nay,  girl !  but  stay. 
You  said  she  had  lost  her  memory  of  words." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Winterbourne.  Come,  let's  be  moving  on 
home." 

"Then  do  as  you  like,  you  wilful  jade.  If  she's  dumb, 
that's  all  I  ask  of  her.  You  shall  have  her  to  wait  upon  and 
use  up  your  own  youth  on.  Have  your  way,  Mad  Hatter. 
Have  your  way." 

But  Bess,  walking  faster  and  faster  toward  home,  did  give 
a  thought  in  the  pauses  of  planning  how  Mrs.  Ramsay  could 
have  the  chintz  chamber,  to  Winterbourne's  own  surprise 
when  he  found  out,  in  the  course  of  days,  that  ladies'  breaking- 
down  was  not  so  ironic  an  affair  as  might  be  supposed.  But 
she  was  too  busy  a  young  woman  to  worry  about  contingen 
cies  before  they  came.  The  corner  of  her  mouth,  the  one 
Winterbourne  could  see,  was  smiling  delightfully.  She  had 
seen  Celia  waiting  for  them  by  the  gate,  Celia  in  a  blue 
gown,  looking  like  the  morn  itself.  Bess  called  to  her,  her 
name  with  a  boyish  "Hullo!"  and  Winterbourne,  hearing 
the  tone  that  at  once  enriched  her  voice,  wondered  how  she 
could  be  so  animated  over  a  tended  piece  of  garden  pretti- 
ness.  His  own  tastes  ran  all  to  wildings,  that,  having  to 
court  no  favor  of  wind  and  sun,  are  the  more  robust. 

"  Where  Ve  you  been,  you  two?"  Celia  asked. 

She  came  in  between  them  and  tucked  an  arm  in  theirs. 
"  I  overslept.  Mother  did,  too.  Lyddy  said  them  that 
wanted  coffee  could  make  it."  She  laughed  at  that,  as  if  her 
young  vitality  needed  no  support  from  coffee  or  anything 
else. 

"  Have  you  had  it? "  Bess  asked  her,  ready,  Winterbourne 


232      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

knew,  to  brew  it  instantly  or  boil  her  a  roc's  egg  if  an  atom 
of  it  might  please  her  appetite. 

"No,  I  don't  want  it.  I've  had  some  bread  and  milk. 
But  where 've  you  been,  you  two?" 

Here  Winterbourne  broke  away  from  the  affectionate 
clasp,  and  with  the  certainty  very  strong  within  him  that  he 
could  n't  bear  the  recital  of  any  more  of  woman's  woes,  went 
round  to  the  side  door  whence  he  could  escape  to  the  arbor 
and  his  smoke. 

"  Sit  down  here  a  minute,"  said  Bess.  "  I  want  to  tell  you 
about  it." 

They  sat  down  together  on  the  stone  step,  both  radiant 
in  the  beauty  of  youth,  but  one  with  the  air  of  the  creature 
born  to  luxury  and  the  other  all  willing  servitude.  Even 
their  hands  were  different.  Celia  thought  that  as  she  took 
up  her  sister's  brown  paw  in  her  own  fragile  one;  she 
choked  a  little  thinking  what  that  meant,  so  many  years  lost 
to  song.  And  to  what  end?  But  wonder  crowded  out  these 
accustomed  thoughts  of  hers,  for  Bess  was  telling  in  a  few 
terse  sentences  what  had  happened  and  what  she  meant  to 
do.  Celia  could  not  exclaim  her  amazement  sufficiently. 

"Take  her  here!"  she  kept  repeating.  "Take  her  here! 
What  can  you  do  with  her? " 

"She's  got  to  have  quiet,"  said  Bess.  "She's  got  to  be 
fed,  too.  I  don't  believe  she's  had  very  much  to  eat,  late 
years.  She's  been  too  drove." 

The  word  hit  Celia  in  the  centre  of  her  fastidiousness,  as 
a  phrase  from  Bess  was  likely  to  do  now  and  then.  Her 
brows  contracted. 

"But  you  say  she's  ill,  too?"  she  inquired,  her  mind  at 
liberty  to  jump  back  to  Catherine.  "Why  don't  we  have 
the  doctor?" 

Then  Bess  explained,  as  she  had  to  Winterbourne,  that 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      233 

these  things  were  simple  as  any  other  task  of  the  day  and 
doctors  only  complicated  them.  They  were  so  careful,  they 
made  you  think  the  matter  was  more  serious  than  it  was. 
All  the  broken-down  needed  was  food  and  courage,  a  plenty. 
They  got  up  from  the  step  and,  turning  to  go  in  together, 
Celia  still  absently  kept  her  sister's  hand. 

"Well,  Bess/'  she  said.  The  tone  was  bitter  and  Bess 
looked  at  her.  "Well,  Bess,  it's  all  coming  out  of  you." 

The  answer  that  it  needn't  all  come  out  of  her  did  not 
present  itself  to  Bess.  She  only  said  the  thing  that  did  come 
to  her  and  appeared  to  cover  everything. 

"  I  can  do  it  as  well  as  not.   I  don't  mind  such  things." 

Celia  turned  upon  her  in  a  loving  rage. 

"You  don't  seem  to  see  what  it  means,"  she  fumed,  her 
voice  suppressed  to  the  proximity  of  Catherine's  window 
overhead.  "If  you're  doing  all  these  things,  you  can't  sing. 
The  days  are  going  and  you  never  will." 

"Sing?"  repeated  Bess,  dazed  for  an  instant,  and  then 
rising  to  the  assault  of  the  word  that  was  always  pelting  her. 
"  Oh,  I  can  sing  fast  enough.  There's  no  trouble  about  that." 

"  I  wish  I  had  it,"  Celia  raged.  "  I  wish  I  had  the  voice. 
You  'd  see  where  I  'd  be.  You  'd  see  where  I  'd  put  us  both." 

Bess  was  looking  at  her  in  a  simple  wonder.  If  Celia 
needed  things,  she  thought  as  she  had  before,  why  then  she 
must  get  them  for  her.  She  might  even  go  through  the 
nightmare  of  standing  up  in  heated  rooms  and  singing  for 
that. 

"What you  want, dear?"  she  asked, like  a  mother.  "What 
is  it  you  want?" 

"I  want  money,"  Celia  said,  in  a  voice  as  hard  as  any 
metal  ever  coined.  "Then  I'd  put  us  both  where  we  ought 
to  be.  Come,  let's  go  up  and  see  her." 


XVIII 

MRS.  RAMSAY,  not  having  taken  off  her  bonnet 
or  removed  the  glove  from  her  mismated  hand, 
was  put  into  a  carriage,  and  Winterbourne,  at  the 
top  notch  of  amazement,  watched  her  being  borne  into  his 
house  and  up  his  stairs.  Then  Bess  shut  the  door  upon  her, 
and  the  void  received  her.  It  was  Winterbourne's  pleasing 
task,  handed  him  by  Bess  in  her  way  of  seeing  the  immediate 
issue  and  no  reason  why  it  should  not  be  met,  to  find  Ramsay 
after  he  came  home  from  the  city  that  late  evening,  and  tell 
him  his  shattered  wife  had  been  spirited  away  from  him  to 
hygienic  influences.  Winterbourne  undertook  the  errand  in 
a  mood  of  waxing  indignation  over  making  himself  an  agent 
in  such  a  coil.  Where  was  Theocritus  ?  Where  were  the  long 
hours  with  Lovell  in  a  kindred  recognition  that  the  world 
could  be  made  to  stand  still  while  one  turned  the  printed 
page  ?  Contesting  that  on  the  way  home,  after  his  mission  had 
been  warily  accomplished,  he  met  Lovell  himself,  and  men 
tally  collared  him,  in  the  sudden  relief  that  here  was  some 
body  who  would  listen  to  language  that  need  not  be  diluted. 

"  I  Ve  seen  Ramsay,"  said  Winterbourne,  as  if  that  cov 
ered  the  enormous  area  of  his  wrongs. 

Lovell  had  been  pelting  along  in  the  summer  night,  after 
an  attempted  call  at  Winterbourne's,  where  Celia,  meeting 
him  at  the  door,  had  told  him  they  had  two  invalids  in  the 
house,  and  yet  had  given  him  a  kind  quarter  erf*  an  hour  in 
the  beguiling  dusk,  where,  in  her  white  gown,  she  looked  to 
him  like  the  angels  he  had  been  forgetting  of  late  years  — 
personified  virtues,  embodied  mysticisms  and  beauties. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      235 

"I  hear  his  wife's  with  you,"  he  responded.  "What's 
Ramsay  say?" 

"Say?  Jim,  do  you  know  how  Ramsay  looks?" 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course  I  do.   I  've  seen  Ramsay." 

"  He  looks  like  pyjamas  of  a  Monday  hanging  on  the  line. 
He  's  a  sketch  of  a  man.  He  is  n't  even  washed  in.  He's  as 
neutral  as  maccaroni." 

"Well,"  said  Lovell.  He  had  turned  to  walk  along  with 
Winterbourne,  the  clever  suggestion  of  impulse  being  that, 
if  he  got  legitimately  back  to  the  Winterbourne  gate,  Celia 
might  be  standing  there  yet.  "What  would  you?"  he  con 
tinued  with  a  laugh.  "Ramsay  's  not  a  Viking.  Who  wants 
him  to  be?" 

"I  had  a  kind  of  a  hope  that  Ramsay  was  a  gay  bucca 
neer.  They  said  he  didn't  even  come  home  Sundays.  I 
thought  he  was  whooping  it  up  in  town." 

"Didn't  you  know  why  Ramsay  doesn't  come  home 
Sundays  ?  I  could  have  told  you  that.  He  works  like  the 
mischief  all  the  week.  He  's  crowded  all  the  time  by  that  firm 
of  his  ;  but  he  does  n't  dare  to  yip  because  he  can't  afford  to 
lose  his  job  and  there's  nothing  left  in  him  now  to  get  an 
other.  And  Sundays  he  goes  to  a  cheap  hotel  in  town,  and 
sleeps  till  Monday." 

"Can't  he  sleep  at  home?" 

"No.  There's  the  children.  And  his  wife  reading  essays 
to  him." 

"The  children!  They  might  play  backgammon  on  my 
shirt-front  and  I  could  sleep." 

"  Well,  Ramsay  can't.  They  're  his  children.  If  they  were 
yours,  maybe  you  couldn't,  either." 

"  My  Father  Jupiter,"  groaned  Winterbourne,  taking  off 
his  hat  and  looking  up  incidentally  at  Orion.  "  Mother  Sky 
and  Brother  Trees,  we  're  all  mad  together  !  Well,  I  've  got 


23  6      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

Anna  Clayton  Ramsay  at  my  house,  and  I  'm  a  broken 
man." 

"Say,  Winter-bourne,"  Lovell  rushed  in  with  the  haste  of 
one  who  has  n't  recognized  rights  to  interfere,  "what's  going 
to  come  of  all  this?  Your  wife  is  sick,  and  now  you've 
adopted  Anna  Clayton  Ramsay.  Lyddy  never '11  stir  her 
stumps  in  this  philanthropy.  Your  girls  are  going  to  break 
down  themselves.  It's  all  coming  on  them." 

"On  whom?"  Winterbourne  inquired,  frowning  at  the 
night. 

"Oh,  Celia  —  and  her  sister." 

"  Don't  you  worry,"  said  Winterbourne  sardonically, 
"nothing's  coming  on  Celia." 

"No,"  said  Lovell,  with  innocence.  "We  must  prevent 
it  if  we  can.  I  don't  believe  Bess  would  let  it.  She  knows 
how  delicate  Celia  is." 

Winterbourne  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"There's  one  of  those  young  women,  my  son,"  said  he, 
"that  is  worthy  of  a  special  and  particular  part — a  statue, 
pure  gold,  of  Artemis  in  a  shrine  of  leaves.  I  'd  like  to  see 
her  there." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lovell,  his  heart  responding. 

All  the  poetic  desires  of  his  youth  came  flooding  back 
upon  him.  It  seemed  to  him  that  fancies  were  beating  softly 
about  in  the  night-air,  their  wings  too  close.  They  kept  him 
from  breathing  almost,  the  soft  warmth  and  fragrance  of 
them  and  the  answering  choke  in  his  throat.  And  this,  he 
thought,  was  nothing  in  him.  It  was  one  girl,  and  because 
she  was  what  she  was. 

"Winterbourne,"  he  said. 

This  was  a  voice  Winterbourne  had  not  heard  from  him. 
Lovell  always  seemed  to  him  as  cool  as  a  frosty  morning. 

"Winterbourne,  she's  the  only  one  for  me." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      237 

The  tone  told  it  all,  so  eloquently  that  Winterbourne  felt 
it  like  a  blow.  It  brought  an  assault  upon  his  own  breath, 
and  for  an  instant  he  halted  and  lost  a  step. 

"Jim,"  said  he,  "  is  Clyde  a  desert  island  ?  Were  n't  there 
any  girls  here  before  these  two  came?" 

"  Not  like  her." 

"  Well,  it 's  all  right  if  you  can  get  her,  but  somehow  I 
never  thought  of  her  going  the  old  way." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  the  old  way?"  Lovell  de 
manded,  in  the  fierce  revulsion  from  his  shyness. 

"  Oh, you  know  —  wedding  rings,  all  the  rest  of  it.  I  sort 
of  hoped  she  'd  be  Diana  in  the  brake.  I  knew  the  earth 
would  take  care  of  her.  The  earth  's  her  mother." 

The  poetic  form  of  it  fitted  in  with  LovelFs  mood.  To 
him,  too,  Celia  was  Diana,  mysterious,  untouched.  He  had 
no  hope,  in  the  humility  of  this  first  vision,  ever  to  find  the 
inner  heart  of  her,  but  he  had  many  knightly  feelings  about 
being  her  servitor. 

"I  know  it,"  he  said  soberly.  "I  did  n't  suppose  you  'd 
hit  her  off  at  once ;  somehow  I  thought  I  was  the  only  one 
to  know  her." 

Winterbourne  put  his  hand  up  through  his  hair  and 
seemed  to  sweep  away  the  gigantic  dreams  of  night. 

"  It 's  easy  to  be  a  fool  in  the  dark,"  he  said.  "  All  the 
infernal  old  curiosities  that  come  out  with  light  are  in  abey 
ance.  Well,  we  think  alike  about  her,  if  that 's  any  comfort 
to  you.  Look  at  the  two  girls.  Look  at  the  difference  in 
'em.  Should  n't  you  say  one  grew  up  out  of  the  earth  in  the 
deep  woods  and  the  other  was  made  in  a  candy-factory  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Lovell,  with  innocence.  "  Bess  does  n't  sug 
gest  the  candy-factory.  But  Celia  is  all  that.  She  grew  up 
out  of  the  earth  and  bloomed.  She  is  a  lily  in  a  garden  of 
spice." 


23  8      JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

Again  Winterbourne  stopped,  the  surprise  of  it  now  the 
assault  upon  his  heart. 

"  Celia!  "  he  muttered,  himself  in  a  supreme  amaze.  "In 
the  name  of  the  prophet,  Celia!  " 

"  What  is  it?"  Lovell  asked  briefly,  coming  out  of  his 
own  particular  musing. 

But  Winterbourne  laughed  a  big  laugh  with  joy  in  it. 
The  thicket  was  unbroken.  His  maid  hid  there,  unsus 
pected  even.  But  Lovell  was  too  good  a  fellow^to  start 
unwarned  on  his  pilgrimage  toward  Celia. 

"  Tell  you  what,  Jim,"  said  Winterbourne. 

"  Well." 

Winterbourne  stopped  to  laugh  again. 

"  If  you  should  marry  Celia,"  —  he  heard  Lovell's  quick 
responsive  breath,  —  "  take  my  advice.  Early,  very  early,  let 
her  see  you  're  master.  Dress  her  in  hodden  gray,  whatever 
that  is,  and  set  her  to  weeding  the  onions.  Knock  the  non 
sense  out  of  her,  if  you  have  to  jam  her  head  against  the 
wall  to  do  it.  That 's  the  last  word  of  a  doting  father." 

They  were  at  the  gate,  and  Winterbourne,  chuckling, 
thought  the  dark  might  well  be  illuminated  by  the  probable 
flash  in  Lovell's  eyes. 

"  Night,  Jim,"  said  he.   "Think  it  over." 

"  Winterbourne,"  Lovell's  voice  came  crisply  after  him 
up  the  path.  "  Winterbourne  ! " 

He  stopped,  returned  a  step,  genial  with  the  delight  that 
overtook  him  on  finding  humanity  shocked  into  candor. 
But  Lovell  had  but  one  scornful  word  to  say :  — 

"  Winterbourne,  you  're  drunk." 

"  Ain't  either,"  said  Winterbourne.  "  I  'm  never  drunk 
unless  it 's  with  hexameters.  I  took  the  privilege  of  a  dot 
ing  father,  and  you  don't  like  it.  Night,  Jim." 

According  to  his  custom  then,  when  there  were  compli- 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      239 

cations  to  interfere  with  a  quiet  smoke,  Winterbourne  took 
his  way  to  the  arbor ;  but  after  his  pipe  was  ready  and  the 
lighted  match  lifted,  he  forbore.  The  smell  would  tell  them 
where  he  was.  Celia  would  come  down  to  pester  him  with 
soft  attentions,  Anna  Clayton  Ramsay  might  even  send  for 
him  to  hear  the  draft  of  a  new  speech  —  for  he  had  no 
faith  in  such  energy  failing.  A  sun  might  as  likely  break 
and  bestrew  the  void  before  its  course  was  finished.  Anna 
Clayton  Ramsay  was  probably  at  that  moment  mounting  a 
table  or  a  bureau  for  a  rostrum  and  holding  forth.  So  he 
walked  softly  into  the  night  and  had  his  smoke,  a  part  of  it 
under  the  old  willow  tree  by  Sutton  River,  where  there  was 
a  convenient  log,  and  the  stillness  made  it  seem  as  if  no  hu 
man  thing  had  come  there  or  would  come.  Once  there  was 
a  hurried  step.  He  thought  it  was  Dwight  Hunter  on  the 
road,  and  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  to  listen  and  per 
haps  to  call.  But  the  figure  went  by,  and  Winterbourne 
said  nothing,  because  solitude  was  blessed  to  him.  When 
he  was  alone  on  nights  like  these,  he  seemed  able  to  put  a 
hand  out  and  touch  the  great  weft  of  things  as  a  whole,  and 
find  how  unbroken  it  is  in  spite  of  the  tangle  of  the  threads 
we  weave  by  day.  He  had  taken  large  and  solemn  joy  of 
these  later  years  when  he  was  outside  the  actual  circle  of 
things,  in  musing  over  the  indestructibility  of  the  web  and 
the  marvellous  pattern  of  it.  None  of  that  happy  contem 
plative  acquiescence  had  been  possible  to  him  while  he  was 
in  the  grip  of  his  emotions,  bound  upon  the  wheel  of  things, 
but  in  fleeing  bonds  he  thought  he  had  escaped  what  had 
brought  him  ill.  At  least  they  had  sealed  his  eyes  so  that  he 
had  not  yet  been  able  to  take  in  this  vision  of  the  whole. 
He  had  hoped,  in  an  undefined  fashion,  that  Lovell,  too, 
meant  to  escape  the  tyranny  of  things,  to  read  his  book  and 
fall  into  the  calm  ecstasy  of  watching  the  sunset  come  and 


24o      JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

go.  But  Lovell  was  still  young.  He  must  break  paths  for 
himself,  even  if  they  led  to  market.  But  Winterbourne, 
though  his  house  just  now  was  a  carnival  of  action,  knew 
that  all  his  own  paths  would  lead  into  the  green  wood  of 
tranquillity.  In  the  green  wood  was  Bess,  also.  He  hoped 
he  could  keep  her  there  in  a  little  leafy  shrine. 

When  he  went  homeward,  it  was  in  great  peace.  The 
hour  was  late,  and  he  meant  to  slip  with  all  possible  soft 
ness  up  to  his  own  room.  There  was  a  light  in  the  kitchen 
and  a  figure  moving  there.  But  as  he  watched  the  strange 
ness  of  it,  a  hand  pulled  down  one  curtain  and  then  the 
other.  Winterbourne  went  up  the  path  to  the  side  door. 
Some  one  was  stirring  in  the  kitchen.  There  was  a  soft 
familiar  sound,  —  a  broom  on  the  floor,  —  Bess,  he  sup 
posed,  sweeping  away  her  prettiness.  He  swore  at  the 
shame  of  it,  opened  the  door  and  went  in,  a  mandate  on 
his  lips  concerning  bed.  The  figure  turned  to  meet  him. 
It  had  a  dust-pan  in  its  hand,  and  shame  was  on  its  face. 
It  was  Dwight  Hunter.  Winterbourne,  in  the  surprise  of 
it,  did  not  even  refer  it  to  Jupiter,  as  he  was  in  the  way 
of  doing.  He  dropped  into  Lyddy's  own  chair  by  the 
window. 

"Well,  my  son,"  said  he,  "what  next?" 

Hunter,  having  seen  who  it  was,  and  that  old  Winter- 
bourne  wasn't  to  be  eluded  like  the  petticoats  before  whom 
he  had  feared  he  might  have  to  justify  himself,  took  up  the 
dust  very  deftly  and  looked  about  him  with  an  anxious  eye, 
to  see  what  had  escaped  him.  The  kitchen  was  a  marvel  of 
tidiness.  Winterbourne,  now  his  attention  was  called  to  it, 
could  see  that.  One  point  only  seemed  to  afford  Hunter  a 
perfect  gratification,  that  because  it  mirrored  an  unusual 
deed  perfectly  accomplished. 

"Cast  your  eye  over  that  stove,"  said  he.  "At   first  I 


JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      241 

couldn't  find  the  blacking.  Look  at  it  shine."  Then  he 
grinned. 

"  Hunter,"  said  Winterbourne  judicially,  "are  you  bring 
ing  the  treasured  lore  of  young  manhood  into  my  kitchen 
as  a  trophy  to  lay  at  Celia's  feet?" 

"Celia  be  hanged,"  said  Hunter,  returning  the  broom  to 
its  nail  and  looking  about  him  with  a  concentrated  energy. 

"  Her  stock  is  very  well  up,  I  'd  have  you  know,"  Win 
terbourne  assured  him.  "  I  've  been  getting  quotations.  Oh, 
you  'd  better  not  sniff  at  Celia." 

Hunter  was  paying  no  attention  at  all. 

"  Lyddy 's  gone  to  bed,"  said  he, "  cantankerous  as  an  old 
witch.  She  says  she 's  got  sciatica,  and  there  were  folks 
enough  in  the  house  before.  The  devil 's  in  her,  that 's  all. 
You  bear  too  much  from  that  old  cormorant." 

"Are  you  laying  the  pride  of  your  young  manhood  at 
Lyddy's  feet  then?"  Winterbourne  inquired  pleasantly,  yet 
resolved  to  push  it. 

"Oh,  come,  hush  up!"  Hunter  flushed  a  little.  "She 
went  upstairs  and  left  the  kitchen  on  its  head.  She  won't 
stir  her  old  stumps  to  get  breakfast.  You  see  if  she  does. 
And  somebody  else  '11  have  to  do  it,  and  it 's  a  mighty  dis 
couraging  thing  to  find  the  kitchen  upside  down." 

He  sounded  quarrelsome. 

"  So  it  is,  Hercules,  so  it  is.  Celia  is  going  to  find  it  right- 
side  up  when  she  comes  in  to  make  the  morning  coffee." 

"Celia  be  blowed,  I  tell  you!" 

"Young  man,  Celia  is  my  daughter." 

"  No,  she  isn't  either.  You  don't  care  a  straw  about  her." 

"Then  it's  evident  you  haven't  done  it  to  please  me." 
Winterbourne  seemed  to  be  musing. 

"  I  'm  not  pleasing  you  to  any  great  extent  nowadays," 
said  Hunter.  He  looked  angry  enough  and  willing  to  show 


JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

it.  "I  don't  seem  to  care  about  the  way  things  are  going  on 
here.  If  you  had  the  spirit  of  a  rabbit,  you  'd  get  a  good  girl 
into  this  house  —  " 

"And  have  Lyddy  hang  herself  to  the  bed-post  by  her 
garters? " 

"Lyddy!  I'm  sick  of  Lyddy.  What  business  have  you 
got  anyway,  taking  a  girl  into  your  house  and  then  working 
her  to  death  to  make  things  go  as  that  old  beldame  wants 
'em  to  ?  You  've  got  to  make  a  change  and  do  it  quick,  or 
something's  going  to  happen." 

Winterbourne  liked  him  very  much  in  his  red-hot  anger, 
his  brown  hands  gripping  the  chair-back  he  had  been  put 
ting  straight,  and  his  jaw  set  firm.  Hunter  was  "mad,"  as 
school-boys  had  seen  him  years  ago,  and  as  he  had  n't  found 
occasion  to  be  since,  he  had  dominated  the  world  so  simply 
and  it  had  so  obeyed  him.  But  Winterbourne  was  n't  going 
to  give  in.  After  all,  it  was  his  kitchen  and  Bess  was  his 
chosen  kid.  He  got  up  from  the  chair,  and  yawned  a  little. 

"  All  right,  Hunter,"  he  agreed.  "  I  've  got  to  go  to  bed. 
So  Ve  you.  There  's  another  day  coming." 

"  I  mean  it,"  Dwight  assured  him.  "  A  man's  laziness  can 
go  too  far." 

Winterbourne  had  opened  the  door  and  stood  looking  out. 
But  there  was  something  in  the  air  that  made  it  likely  he  ex 
pected  Dwight  to  go,  and  the  youth  blunderingly  did,  feeling 
righteous  but  somehow  crude  and  foolish.  Yet  he  was  awake 
to  the  injustice  of  it  all.  A  man  like  Winterbourne,  as  clever 
as  he,  he  thought,  could  make  you  feel  young  byjust  stand 
ing  by  and  laughing.  But  he  had  no  business  to.  He  'd  better 
get  a  capable  girl  into  the  kitchen  and  stop  talking  about 
Jupiter  and  Theocritus.  Dwight  had  loved  the  talk  about 
Theocritus  until  it  became  apparent  that  Bess  was  being 
lashed  too  hard.  That  sent  Theocritus  up  in  smoke. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      243 

"  Dwight,"  Winterbourne  called  him. 

"Well,"  said  Dwight,  pausing  in  the  path. 

"  You  're  certain  you  don't  consider  Celia  a  lily  in  a  garden 
of  spice?" 

To  this  Dwight  had  no  answer.  The  quizzical  twist  in  the 
tone  of  it  sent  him  swinging  on  his  heel  and  down  the  path. 

"Well,"  said  Winterbourne  to  the  stars,  "it's  evident 
I  've  got  no  friends." 

He  went  to  bed,  laughing  softly  and  not  entirely  with 
mirth.  But  the  next  morning  it  was  at  last  decreed  that  he 
should  see  his  wife.  He  went  in  on  a  lumbering  tiptoe,  trying 
to  get  used  to  the  queerness  of  it  —  a  woman  in  health  over 
night  and  then  in  a  state  of  fragility  where  you  mustn't  ex 
cite  her,  mustn't  even  gainsay  her,  as  he  understood.  She 
lay  in  her  bed,  very  pretty  and  young,  with  the  lines  smoothed 
out  of  her  face,  wistfully  charming,  but  evidently  entirely  ac 
quiescent  in  her  task  of  not  getting  up.  Winterbourne  felt  an 
instant  pity  of  her.  It  swallowed  up  the  impish  wonder  he 
had  felt  over  the  situation  while  it  was  imperfectly  under 
stood. 

"  Well,  young  lady,"  said  he,  standing  by  the  bedside. 
"  Want  me  to  read  to  you  ?  " 

She  made  the  slightest  motion  of  her  head  on  the  pillow. 
It  was  negation  accomplished  with  the  smallest  amount  of 
energy.  Immediately  Winterbourne  felt  that,  contrary  to 
her  usual  faithful  habit,  she  did  not  wish  him  to  stay.  She 
expected  him  to  go. 

"Bess  wants  me  to  say  my  prayers,"  she  informed  him,  in 
a  tone  of  wonder. 

"  Well,"  said  Winterbourne,  covering  the  issue  as  well  as 
he  could,  in  the  dark  as  he  was  over  the  theological  aspect 
of  it,  "it  wouldn't  do  most  of  us  any  harm." 

"  She  says  I  must  do  it  when  I  'm  afraid." 


244      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  Oh,  come,  Cat,  you  're  not  afraid.  You  've  got  that  up 
to  scare  the  rest  of  us." 

"  I  am,"  she  insisted.  "  I  feel  afraid." 

"Want  me  to  go  now?  "  he  asked,  answering  something 
in  her  eyes. 

She  nodded,  and  he  went.  On  the  stairs  he  met  Bess  in 
afternoon  trim,  calm  as  a  lake  without  a  ripple.  She  seemed 
to  him  the  only  relieving  incident  in  a  world  of  tedium  and 
madness.  He  stopped  on  the  landing  to  let  her  pass. 

"  Bess,"  said  he,  in  spite  of  himself  offering  her  his  per 
sonal  pocket  of  complaint,  "  the  times  are  most  infernally 
out  of  joint." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  did  n't  stay,"  said  Bess,  intent  as  ever 
upon  the  direct  issue.  "  I  'm  going  to  tell  her  about  Mrs. 
Ramsay." 

"  Doesn't  she  know  that  woman  's  here  ?  " 

"  No.  I  guess  I  'd  better  tell  her.  Mrs.  Ramsay  keeps 
sending  her  messages,  only  she  can't  remember  the  word, 
and  I  get  all  mixed  up." 

"  Bess,  does  n't  it  seem  to  you  as  if  this  house  was  a  par 
ticular  bedlam  broke  loose  ?  " 

She  was  meeting  his  frowning  gaze  with  her  calm  scrutiny. 

"Why,  no,"  she  said,  unmoved.  "  It  seems  to  me  about 
as  everything  is  all  the  time." 

"  Does  there  seem  to  you  anything  unusual  in  the  fact  that 
you  're  working  night  and  day  to  keep  this  old  scow  afloat  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Bess,  apparently  thinking  it  over  as  something 
deserving  consideration  though  it  had  not  occurred  to  her 
before.  "  'Most  everybody's  got  all  they  can  do  everywhere 
all  the  time." 

This  seemed  to  cover  the  matter,  but  he  had  one  word 
more  for  her  —  this  left  from  the  blows  Hunter  had  dealt  him. 
That  arrow  had  hit,  and  the  place  was  stinging  yet. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      245 

"You're  going  to  have  a  maid,  Bess.  You're  not  going 
to  be  Cinderella  any  longer." 

"A  maid?  What  for?" 

"  To  keep  you  from  breaking  your  back  over  this  infernal 
house." 

"Well,  I  guess  I'm  not,"  said  Bess  with  promptitude. 
"  Where  'd  Lyddy  be  ?  You  can  get  all  the  girls  you  want 
to,  but  they  won't  come  into  Lyddy's  kitchen  if  I  can  help 
it.  There!" 

It  was  the  first  sign  of  intemperate  heat  he  had  seen  in 
her.  It  quite  touched  her  up  to  something  imperfect  and 
human,  and  he  liked  it.  She  went  on  to  her  task,  and  he  to 
his  pipe  downstairs  and  his  reflections  on  the  changing 
pageant  of  the  world. 


XIX 

CELIA  wanted  a  garden  of  life,  pretty  posy-beds  to 
bloom  and  wave  their  ribbons  and  banners,  all  the 
world  meantime  saying,  "How  fine  your  garden  is! 
How  much  better  than  other  gardens,  and  how  clever  you 
were  to  make  it!  "  But  she  had  crude  ways  of  arriving.  Some 
even  tawdry-minded  girl  born  with  an  easy  recognition  of  men 
and  spoils  could  have  taught  her  many  things:  yet  those  are 
the  clevernesses  that  come  by  nature,  and  really  no  teaching 
ever  avails.  She  was  no  sportsman.  She  never  trod  delicately 
enough,  and  even  having  winged  the  bird,  she  was  apt  to 
pounce  too  quickly,  and  holding  him  for  one  moment  in  her 
impetuous  hands,  start  back  frightened  at  the  ebbing  warm 
life  of  him,  the  blood  she  had  drawn,  and  drop  him,  herself 
to  run  away  into  deeper  coverts. 

There  is  one  endowment  of  woman  that  comes  by  grace 
and  not  by  learning,  —  the  power  to  manage  a  man,  and  it 
is  distributed  with  as  much  eccentricity  as  the  glory  of  the 
singing  voice,  or  the  instinct  of  seeing  a  sunset  as  it  will 
look  in  paint.  Is  not  music  a  gift,  heaven-descended  ?  So  is 
innate  coquetry,  and  as  capriciously  given.  The  daughter  of 
all  the  Caesars  may  go  earless  and  croaking,  and  some  slave 
sprung  out  of  ignominy  may  carry  divinest  airs  to  the  heaven 
that  gave  them  birth  or  coax  them  out  of  wood  and  string. 
There  is  no  reason  in  this  save  the  unexplained  reasons  of 
Nature,  who  brazenly  shows  her  hand,  though  no  one  is  game 
enough  to  play  against  her.  Cleopatra  is  as  likely  to  be  born 
one  of  a  hovel  as  in  gilded  wedlock. 

There  are  unwashed,  uncombed  maidens  enough  in  the 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      247 

world  who  with  the  unconsciousness  of  instinct  can  lead  men 
by  a  silken  leash  ;  but  Celia  was  not  of  them,  and  would  not, 
by  instinct,  have  wished  to  be.  She  had  all  the  virginal  with 
drawals,  panics,  even,  that  made  her  sister  so  austere.  If  she 
could  have  been  a  princess,  unapproached  save  for  obei 
sances,  that  would  have  pleased  her  mightily,  and  she  would 
have  kept  her  throne  inviolate.  Prince  consorts  were  not  for 
her.  But  here  she  was  in  the  wrong  place,  colored  by  ideals 
that  kept  her  smarting.  The  world,  she  conceived  through 
Catherine's  teaching,  was  an  assemblage  of  competitive  ranks 
where  it  is  necessary  to  seem  wonderful.  In  a  subordinate 
place,  she  was  surfeited  with  favors  she  never  could  repay, 
except  according  to  the  dull  old  recipe  of  being  a  good  girl ; 
this  put  her  nature  on  its  mettle,  bade  it  somehow  reach  the 
top,  wherever  that  might  be,  and  justify  itself.  And  since  she 
had  n't  a  talent  or  an  aptitude  to  bless  her,  she  must,  as  the 
game  was  to  be  played  any  way,  fall  back  on  the  cleverer  ones 
and  coax  them,  through  tact  alone,  to  play  for  her. 

Celia  was  never  wilfully  self-seeking.  She  was  only  an 
egotist,  a  little  wood-animal  doubling  and  darting  because 
it  must,  a  creature  with  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  inor 
dinately  developed.  And  because  she  must  live,  as  she  con 
ceived  it,  she  made  love  to  the  more  fortunate,  and  did  it 
badly.  It  had  been  her  course  all  through  her  stay  abroad. 
If  she  had  not  been  so  startlingly  pretty,  men  would  have 
said  she  was  too  intense,  too  near  the  verge  of  forwardness 
with  no  irresponsible  "go  "  in  her  to  complete  the  fun.  She 
was  always  a  mystery  in  the  end,  for  she  invariably  had  panic 
when  the  emotion  she  seemed  to  have  challenged  made  its 
own  demand.  But  even  then  she  had  not  cared  so  passion 
ately  as  she  did  now  to  enter  into  some  kind  of  a  kingdom 
and  take  Bess  with  her.  Before,  there  had  been  a  dozen  col 
ored  strands  of  action,  none  of  them  so  very  strong,  to  make 


248      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

her  court  supremacy  —  gratitude  to  Catherine,  affection  for 
her,  it  might  be,  the  bitter  knowledge  that  in  no  way  save  that 
of  making  good  could  she  wipe  off  her  score  after  all  Cather 
ine  had  done  for  her.  But  now  there  was  Bess,  passionately 
loved,  a  part  of  her,  born  of  the  same  parents,  unpicturesque 
though  they  might  be,  and  Bess  had  the  treasure  that  might 
set  them  both  right  with  a  world  that  demanded  fireworks. 

So  she  sat  with  Lovell  in  the  arbor  one  summer  dusk, 
waiting  for  Bess  to  finish  her  cares  and  come  out  to  them, 
and  thought,  while  she  talked  in  her  soft  voice  with  the  lovely 
thrill  in  it,  of  his  money  and  how  Bess  might  possibly  come 
into  it,  and  whether  Bess  could  even  marry  him.  She  knew 
persons  of  a  genial  mind  were  ready  enough  to  lend  money 
to  young  musicians  weighted  with  an  untrained  talent,  and 
Lovell,  above  all  men  she  ever  saw,  seemed  to  her  careless 
enough  to  saunter  the  way  of  a  fancy,  if  it  were  picturesque. 
So  she  talked  of  Bess,  how  dear  she  was,  how  wilfully  sacri 
ficed  to  commonplace  cares,  and  how  the  universe  ought 
to  rock  with  horror  while  such  a  voice  was  being  sacrificed 
that  Bess  might  save  old  Lyddy's  pains. 

Lovell  was  a  willing  voyager  on  the  flow  of  it.  Whatever 
she  talked  about,  the  topic  pleased  him  best.  Her  chal 
lenge,  the  intensity  of  her,  had  been  the  piercing  call  to 
rouse  him  from  his  ease  and  make  him  swear  at  himself  for 
the  grotesque  futility  of  the  past  behind  him.  His  life  had 
one  beauty-spot,  the  time  of  his  short  consulship,  when 
Italy  showed  him  her  lovely  face,  and  poetry  cried  to  him 
through  the  nights  that  were  but  golden  bridges  between 
ecstatic  days.  He  was  off  his  head  then,  he  knew,  with  youth 
and  the  newness  of  the  world  —  too  much  of  a  boy  to  have 
been  there,  except  as  a  wandering  student,  but  put  into  the 
place  ostensibly  from  his  extraordinary  capacities  and  really 
because  his  father  had  a  friend  at  Washington.  This  was  the 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      249 

brief  time  of  his  perfect  accord  with  life  as  he  found  it  there, 
running  back  over  the  strings  of  the  past,  his  fingers  evoking 
a  thin  music  of  their  own,  all  aglow  in  the  present,  and  the 
certainty  that  never  was  the  world  going  to  see  a  life  like  his 
life.  Then  the  swift  foolish  drama,  —  the  Italian  nobleman, 
wearer  of  a  title  entwined  with  memories,  of  the  American 
and  the  American's  wife,  and  the  duel,  and  he,  the  Ameri 
can  consul,  on  the  grounds  with  them  in  a  fever  of  youthful 
pomp  and  chivalry.  But  the  duel  ended  in  smoke,  and  the 
American  lady  was  taken  to  England,  and  the  Italian  was 
doubly  picturesque  with  more  trophies  at  his  sword-hilt; 
and  the  American  consul  went  home  under  a  cloud,  the 
papers  smoking  with  the  fun  and  folly  of  it,  and  reporters 
meeting  him  at  the  pier. 

His  mother  never  knew  exactly  how  it  was.  Her  dim 
senses  were  easily  hoodwinked,  and  she  was  thankful,  in  her 
porcelain  way,  that  dear  James  had  given  up  Italy  for  New 
England.  Covered  with  the  shame  of  it,  dear  James  had 
turned  himself,  as  fast  as  he  could,  into  a  hermit ;  and  here 
he  was  dancing  at  the  end  of  the  leash  a  woman  held.  Would 
he  have  loved  Celia  if  he  had  seen  her  even  in  all  her  young 
freshness  in  a  garden  of  other  girls,  yet  not  blooming  for 
him  alone  ?  He  never  asked  himself.  But  she  had,  in  her 
untrained  way,  taken  a  shot  at  him  —  the  shot  of  direct 
address,  of  the  fixed  gaze  of  admiration.  She  had  called 
him  a  poet,  and  this  in  her  memorable  voice.  It  was  a  chal 
lenge  he  had  at  least  to  remember.  For  the  next  thing  she 
said,  he  was  listening.  And  she  had  said  many  things  —  few 
of  them  adroit,  none  of  them  indeed  personal,  but  all  borne 
on  that  thrilling  voice  which  seemed  to  be  for  him  alone 
and  to  say  the  unutterable  even  when  the  words  were  too 
slight  for  the  memory  to  hold  them  half  an  hour. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Ramsay's  better,"  she  was  telling  him  now. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S  FAMILY 

"She  hasn't  got  back  her  memory  though.  It's  lovely  to 
have  her  here,  of  course,"  —  Celia  never  allowed  that  any 
thing  connected  with  the  emotions  was  not  lovely,  —  "only 
it 's  so  hard  for  Bess." 

"It's  hard  for  you." 

"It's  not  so  hard  for  me  as  for  Bess,"  she  said,  in  her 
candor  of  giving  credit,  the  pretty  way  of  it  so  beguiling 
that  double  credit  to  herself  abounded.  "  She  's  more  practical 
than  I  am,  so  she  sees  more  things  to  do.  I  should  like  to 
catch  her  up  and  run  with  her  and  never  stop  till  she's  safe 
from  all  these  hateful  things." 

"  Where  would  she  be  safe?" 

"Where  she  could  study.  Where  she  could  sing." 

Celia  never  told  anybody  that  Bess  herself,  the  owner  of 
the  voice,  carried  it  uneasily,  awkwardly  almost,  ready  to 
drop  it  in  a  corner  if  such  might  be  and  go  on  her  unham 
pered  way  without  it.  That  would  be  too  damaging ;  and 
more  than  that,  the  final  height  to  be  won,  after  the  path 
had  been  smoothed,  was  the  will  of  Bess  herself.  In  the  last 
resort  of  ease,  she  must  be  made  to  sing. 

"WThere  could  she  study?" 

"In  Italy." 

Lovell's  mind  made  answer,  throwing  half-floutingly  for 
him  to  catch,  the  word  that  hurt  him  most  —  Italy,  haunt 
of  beauty,  home  of  the  emotions,  picture  painted  by  the 
immortals  themselves  to  show  what  heavenly  life  might  be. 
It  was  always  drawing  him,  and  the  pathos  of  his  leaving  it 
forever  beating  him  back.  Some  time,  when  he  was  an  old 
man,  he  had  told  himself,  he  might  return  to  it ;  but  to 
night,  with  Celia  gleaming  in  the  dusk  there  like  the  big 
challenge  she  seemed  to  him,  Hope  got  him  for  a  moment  by 
the  arm  and  whispered  to  him.  He  spoke,  not  knowing 
clearly  what  he  was  saying  but  rushing  to  get  it  over :  — 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      251 

"We'll  take  her  with  us,  —  if  you'll  go  with  me." 

Celia  said  nothing  at  all,  and  the  white  of  her  dress 
showed  not  even  a  pulsation  of  breath.  She  was  so  still  that 
it  seemed  to  him  he  had,  in  putting  a  stop  to  their  incon- 
sidered  intercourse,  denied  the  course  of  life  in  her.  There 
was  no  retreat  now,  even  if  he  wished  it,  and  he  did  wish  it 
in  a  measure.  His  brain  told  him  it  was  too  soon,  but  his 
heart,  that  had  despaired  of  life,  was  beating  in  a  life  that 
would  be  manifest. 

"  Celia,"  he  said.  His  voice  shook.  He  put  out  a  hand 
that  trembled,  but  it  touched  the  air.  Only  it  had  to  show 
the  frozen  maiden  how  fain  it  was  of  her  own  cold  hand. 
"  Celia,  go  with  me."  Bess  was  out  of  it  now,  even  as  a  lure. 
"  Marry  me,  Celia.  Celia  !  " 

But  Celia  had  no  voice.  She  was  filled  through  every  vein 
with  fright,  unfeignedly  shocked  at  the  turn  the  road  had 
taken.  She  wanted  to  say, — 

"  Can't  you  love  Bess  ?  Can't  you  give  us  some  money 
and  not  love  her  ?  Can't  you  give  it  to  her  voice  ?  Oh,  for 
pity's  sake !  " 

Lovell  spoke  again. 

"  Say  something,  dear." 

Then,  because  she  could  say  nothing,  she  rose  suddenly, 
without  recognized  will  of  her  own,  and  pushed  her  chair 
abruptly  in  the  doing.  But  she  could  not  run.  How  impos 
sible  to  say  "  no  "  to  golden  fortune,  and  how  impossible  to 
turn  her  back  !  If  she  did  that,  some  primitive  impulse  in 
her  answering  the  elemental  in  him  told  her  she  would  be 
pursued.  So  she  stood  there  in  what  seemed  a  voluntary 
waiting.  Lovell,  too,  rose. 

"You  don't  say  cno,'"  he  threw  at  her  in  a  roughened 
voice.  "  You  won't  say  c  yes.'  "  Then  inconceivably,  to  her, 
because  she  had  not  realized  that  such  things  were  so  in- 


252      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S  FAMILY 

stant  in  their  onslaught,  he  had  taken  her  to  him  and  kissed 
her  lips,  with  certainty,  with  passion. 

"  Let  me  go  !  "  she  managed  breathlessly.  "  Let  me  go ! " 

But  he  was  the  master  of  fate,  her  mind  still  told  her, 
though  not  the  master  of  her  will.  She  must  not  anger  him. 
He  was  talking  softly,  in  triumph,  in  the  enchantment  of  it, 
close  to  her  ear. 

"  No,'*  he  was  saying,  "  no.  Let  them  find  us  here. 
We'll  tell  them  all.  Celia!" 

Her  name  even  was  intoxicating  to  him.  He  said  it  fool 
ishly,  and  then  because  he  found  her  shuddering,  he  was 
kinder,  and  reminded  himself  suddenly  how  rough  it  was  to 
bruise  a  flower  just  gathered.  But  he  kept  her  near  a  mo 
ment  more,  whispering  to  her. 

"If  I  let  you  go,  you'll  leave  me.  I  shan't  see  you  till 
to-morrow.  You  must  promise  first." 

Her  lips,  her  chin,  were  trembling.  She  could  not  steady 
them. 

"  Promise,"  he  was  saying. 

"What?" 

"  Promise  to  let  it  be  quickly.  You  shall  have  her  with 
you." 

"Bess?" 

"  Not  at  first.  Not  for  a  minute,  till  I  'm  used  to  you. 
We  '11  stay  here  awhile.  Then  we  '11  go  abroad,  and  she  '11 
go  with  us." 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"  You  promise  me  ?  " 

Then  from  his  kinder  clasp  she  did  escape,  and  seemed 
to  melt  away  through  the  dusk,  out  of  the  room,  and  though 
he,  listening,  could  not  hear  her,  up  the  stairs.  He  knew 
a  door  closed,  and,  with  nothing  to  stay  for  in  an  empty 
house,  he  went  away  home,  song  in  his  heart,  exultation  in 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      253 

his  mind.  He  was  having  that  most  intoxicating  of  all 
draughts,  the  sweetest  in  life  perhaps  except  the  first  drop 
of  some  heavenly  cup  —  renewal.  Life  had  once,  while  he 
was  dancing  with  her,  thrown  her  bright  domino  aside  and 
turned  into  a  zany,  flouting  him.  Now  here  she  was  again, 
an  angel,  not  a  mountebank,  and  he  was  adoring  her  with 
an  added  passion  after  loss. 

He  went  home  to  his  grave  little  house  and  lighted  can 
dles  because  the  dusk  was  too  moving  for  him.  He  saw  in 
every  gleam  the  whiteness  of  a  woman's  gown.  His  ecstasy 
kept  pounding  along  through  his  veins,  but  not  frantically 
now.  It  was  set  to  solid  business.  He  was  planning  how  he 
would  open  the  big  house  to-morrow  and  put  workmen  into 
it.  He  even  got  out  pencil  and  paper  and  made  lists  of  tasks 
to  be  hastened.  But  he  knew,  though  he  could  not  without 
trembling  too  much  look  full  in  the  face  of  his  bright  des 
tiny,  that  he  was,  strangely  selected,  he  who  had  failed,  the 
master  of  life. 

Bess  was  lying  on  the  outside  of  her  bed,  resting  for  half 
an  hour  until  she  should  give  Mrs.  Ramsay  her  posset  for 
the  night.  Celia,  in  a  fury  of  noiseless  haste,  rushed  in  and 
dropped  on  her  knees  by  the  bedside.  She  buried  her  face 
in  the  clothes  and  sobs  shook  her. 

"What  is  it?"  Bess  entreated,  bending  over  her.  "What 
is  it,  lambie  ?  " 

It  was  one  of  the  few  tender  words  she  knew,  remem 
bered  from  some  childish  tragedy  when  she  had  been  com 
forted. 

But  Celia  cried  and  would  not  stop.  She  seemed  to  her 
self  to  be  washing  her  cheeks  clean  of  that  incredible  touch. 
For  her  lips,  she  could  not  think  of  them.  All  her  being 
had  become  the  tempestuous  sea  of  a  great  revulsion. 

"How  could  you?"  she  wanted  to  hurl  at  Lovell,  over 


254      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

and  over  like  stones  from  a  height  of  hurt  maidenhood. 
"Oh,  how  could  you?" 

Bess  was  comforting  her  chiefly  in  an  inarticulate  way,  with 
strokings  of  the  hair  and  little  sympathetic  sounds.  Very 
soon  Celia  got  up  and  wiped  her  wet  face  and  smoothed 
back  her  hair.  She  sat  on  the  bedside  and  let  Bess  keep  her 
nerveless  hand.  At  last,  when  the  ebb  of  sobbing  breaths 
would  let  her,  she  whispered, — 

"  Let 's  go  away  from  here." 

"  We  can't,"  said  Bess,  soothing  the  hand,  "  not  while 
there  's  so  many  sick." 

"  She  is  n't  sick,"  said  Celia,  for  the  first  time  disclosing 
her  bare  mind,  unclothed  by  sympathetic  formulae.  "  She  's 
tired  of  not  having  her  own  way." 

Bess  shook  her  head  reprovingly,  like  a  mother,  in  the 
darkness. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  as  to  a  child.  "  Folks  do  get  sick 
that  way.  They  get  tired  out.  I  Ve  seen  'em." 

"  But  what  has  she  to  be  tired  of,"  Celia  insisted  sav 
agely,  "  except  what  I  said  —  not  having  her  own  way  ?  " 

Bess  hardly  thought  she  could  tell.  But  she  knew  this  was 
a  real  thing. 

"  You  be  patient,"  she  counselled.  "  Some  time  we  '11  go 
away." 

"  Should  you  like  to  ? "  Celia  asked  her  eagerly. 

"  I  'd  like  it  ever  so  much,"  Bess  answered,  without  hesi 
tation.  But  the  qualifying  thought  came  afterwards.  "  I 
should  n't  like  to  leave  him,"  she  remembered  frankly. 

Celia's  hand  gripped  hers.  "  Who  ?"  she  asked.  "Who 
is  it  you  would  n't  want  to  leave  ?  " 

Her  scared  mind  leaped  at  the  possibility  that  Bess  might 
be  thinking  of  Lovell,  who  hatefully  would  not  think  of  her. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Winterbourne,"  Bess  was  answering  in  an 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       255 

unconsidered  candor.  cc  It  would  be  awful  not  to  see  him 
every  day.  I  should  n't  know  how  to  get  along/' 

"  But  he  does  n't  like  us.  Yes,  he  does  like  you,  but  it 's 
only  because  you  make  things  smooth.  He  does  n't  care 
about  an  earthly  thing  except  to  read  his  book  and  smoke." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  does,"  said  Bess.  Their  secret  was  warm 
about  her  heart,  tucked  in  round  it  like  a  coverlet  on  a  cold 
night.  She  smiled  a  little  to  herself,  and  when  she  spoke, 
Celia  caught  the  lighter  note.  "  But  don't  you  worry.  Some 
day  we  '11  go  away.  Maybe  some  day  soon." 

"What  could  we  do?"  Celia  asked  her,  with  a  feverish 
desire  to  prove  the  way. 

There  was  a  small  hope  in  her,  too.  She  never  forgot  how 
Bess  had  been  told  that  she  had,  miraculously,  a  perfect 
method.  She  could  sing.  She  could  induct  them  both  into 
courts  of  ease,  and  Catherine,  afar,  would  catch  the  echo  of 
the  plaudits  fluttering  round  them.  Celia  knew  she  could  do 
that  instantly,  if  she  had  been  the  one  with  a  voice  and  a 
perfect  method.  Bess  answered  her  with  the  utmost  sim 
plicity,— 

"  We  could  keep  boarders." 

Celia  snatched  her  hand  away. 

"  I  believe  you  —  "  She  stopped. 

Out  of  her  rage  she  was  too  near  telling  Bess  what  such 
a  thought  must  mean.  For  that  instant  she  believed  her 
sister  had  the  soul  of  a  maid-servant  and  no  more ;  but  the 
sweet  temperate  voice  of  her  unwittingly  sounded  a  recall. 

<c  What  is  it  you  believe  ?  Maybe  you  would  n't  like  to 
keep  boarders.  But  you  see  I  know  how.  I  could  do  it  real 
well.  I  guess  that's  all  I  could  do." 

There  had  been  a  halting  step  on  the  stairs,  and  now 
Lyddy  came,  a  small,  uncouth  figure  lighted  by  the  candle 
on  the  tray  she  carried.  On  the  tray  were  also  delicate  cups 


256      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

and  napery  and  a  steaming  pitcher.  This  she  offered  to 
Bess  with  a  hostile,  grudging  air  of  being  obliged  to  enter 
the  prevailing  philanthropic  folly. 

"Here's  their  milk,"  she  said,  as  if  it  might  be  their 
poison  rightfully  earned.  "  I  've  brought  it  so  fur." 

Bess  took  the  tray  and  thanked  her  briefly.  That  was  all 
Lyddy  wanted.  Full  gratitude  would  have  embittered  the 
service  she  rendered  of  her  free  will,  and  made  her  stop  to 
wonder  whether  she  was  going  to  be  drawn  into  any  em- 
broglio  of  kindness,  having  volunteered  thus  much  to  save 
a  step.  At  the  door  she  turned. 

"You  go  to  bed  arter  you  give  that  to  'em,"  she  threw 
back,  as  if  it  were  a  missile.  "You  '11  git  wore  out." 

They  heard  her  limping  off  to  bed,  and  then  Bess  took 
the  tray  up  and  laughed  a  little  as  she  did  it.  There  were 
tears  in  her  voice  when  she  spoke  again,  and  they  were  such 
rare  visitants  that  Celia  asked  her  jealously, — 

"  What  are  you  crying  for  ? " 

"  I  'm  not  crying,"  said  Bess ;  but  she  added  simply, 
"  Lyddy  's  so  good  to  me  !  " 


XX 

MRS.  RAMSAY,  from  having  been  one  of  the 
brightest  stars  of  feminine  influence,  flashing  down 
the  void  of  a  world  disordered,  had  simply  become 
a  cipher,  not  even  of  any  use  in  augmenting  the  significant 
figures  before  it.  She  lay  prone,  perhaps  shocked  at  herself, 
ignoring  her  plight  as  much  as  possible,  not  calling  for  the 
children  any  more  than  she  had  in  the  days  when  she  knew 
they  were  at  hand,  and  compliant  before  the  mandates  of 
Bess  as  if  they  were  budded  from  omniscience.  She  grew 
pretty,  too,  her  cheeks  blooming  under  rest,  and  her  crisp 
nightgown  more  becoming  to  her  than  any  sleazy  regalia 
had  ever  been. 

Tim  hung  about  the  house,  not  concerned,  it  seemed, 
but  ready  to  run  on  cheerful  errands  that  had  to  do  with 
her,  and  she  saw  him  often.  She  awaited  him  anxiously, 
and  when  he  came,  asked  him  with  a  querulous  insistence 
whether  he  had  done  it  yet.  Sometimes  he  told  her  "yes,"  and 
then  she  was  pleased,  though  not,  it  seemed,  believing  him, 
and  when  he  varied  his  reply,  through  some  impulse  of 
mood,  she  spoke  to  him  heatedly  and  bade  him  do  it  now. 
But  she  never  could  think  of  the  word  which  was  the  key 
to  what  she  wanted  him  to  do.  Sometimes  she  appealed  to 
Bess,  and  begged  her  to  consider  whether  it  could  be  foot- 
warmers  or  flatirons  that  Tim  had  so  betrayed,  and  then 
Bess  would  waylay  Tim  at  his  next  coming  and  tell  him 
he  really  mustn't  talk  to  his  mother  about  the  thing  that 
troubled  her.  And  what,  she  asked  him,  was  the  thing  ? 
Why  not  tell  her,  that  she  mighvwhen  she  was  appealed  to, 


25 8       JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

know  what  to  say  ?  But  Tim  laughed  at  it  all,  in  the  frank 
est  unconcern.  Mother 'd  been  gassing  all  her  life,  he  said. 
No  wonder  she'd  gone  dotty  over  words.  He  would  n't  see 
her  that  day,  but  he  'd  come  again. 

Bess  did  n't  like  him  fully.  What  was  the  use,  her  prac 
tical  working  sense  told  her,  of  girl's  prettiness  when  you 
were  n't  a  girl  ?  It  was  n't  serviceable,  and  with  Bess  things 
had  to  be  operative  in  some  way  before  they  could  be  ac 
cepted.  Tim  went  whistling  down  the  stairs  from  his 
mother's  door  that  morning,  and  Bess  was  again  out  of  con 
ceit  with  him,  for  his  mother  would  hear  him  and  have  to 
be  soothed  because  he  hadn't  come  in. 

At  the  door  Tim  came  on  Celia,  bright-eyed,  pink- 
cheeked  with  excitement,  and  blue  in  the  dress.  She  held  a 
letter  in  a  white  hand  that  rustled  the  pages  into  their  folds 
almost  as  if  he  might  read  them.  She  was  a  model  for  a 
painter's  conception  of  the  first  love-letter  or  some  such  sen 
timentality,  and  she  greatly  appealed  to  Timothy.  Bess  he 
was  a  little  afraid  of.  She  had  no  notion  of  luxurious  ease 
as  applied  either  to  herself  or  anybody  else.  You  had  to  be 
laid  by  the  heels,  to  inherit  her  soft  indulgences.  If  you 
could  put  one  foot  before  the  other,  she  was  as  likely  to 
send  you  sweltering  off  to  the  store  with  the  thermometer 
in  the  eighties  because  mother  wanted  a  lemon.  But  Celia 
was  a  different  stuff,  —  delicate,  pretty  bit  out  of  a  garden 
nosegay.  She  liked  him,  too.  Tim  had  a  way  of  talking  that 
seemed  to  her  very  clever.  It  was  caught,  a  little  of  it,  from 
Winterbourne,  a  scrap  from  Lovell,  and  welded  flimsily 
with  some  of  Hunter's  blunt  directness ;  but  when  it  was 
finished  it  seemed  to  be  Timothy's  own,  and  Celia,  who 
had  no  picturesque  loquacity,  was  much  impressed  by  it. 
Winterbourne  could  n't  move  her  because  he  was  too  rough. 
She  couldn't  endure  the  thought  of  his  unkempt  beard,  and 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       259 

the  words  from  its  midst  would  have  had  to  be  very  sweet 
indeed  to  earn  her  tolerance,  —  songs  from  such  a  thicket. 

Lovell,  she  would  have  said  yesterday,  was  tremendously 
clever,  but  to-day,  with  that  touch  of  his  cheek  against  hers 
still  stinging  it  to  shame,  she  thought  everything  about  him 
odious.  The  letter,  so  hastily  folded,  she  tucked  into  the 
little  bag  at  her  side.  It  was  from  Lovell,  all  an  ecstasy  of 
hope.  He  could  not  be  with  her  that  morning,  it  told  her, 
because  he  had  heard  Hopkins,  the  builder,  was  going  off 
for  a  trip  up-country,  and  Lovell  had  to  see  him  before  he 
went  and  talk  over  putting  the  big  house  in  order.  Tim, 
coming  down  the  stairs  and  smiling,  with  no  idea  of  being 
married,  looked  like  a  nice  playmate,  and  Celia  smiled  back 
at  him. 

"Where  you  going?"  he  asked. 

She  had  no  appearance  of  going  anywhere,  but  he  was 
suddenly  enamoured  of  walking  with  her  in  green  shade,  and 
starting  before  Bess  had  time  to  weight  him  with  an  errand. 
But  she  did  n't  answer  him  directly.  Her  eyes  crinkled  with 
a  smile  and  she  said, — 

"You  always  look  as  if  you  hadn't  a  thing  to  do." 

Tim  paused  beside  her  and  noted  how  soft  her  hair  was 
and  how  prettily  it  grew  up  from  her  neck. 

"  Don't  either,"  he  said.  "  I  've  got  a  lot  to  do,  and  I 
look  it."  But  she  was  still  smiling  and  crinkling  at  him,  and 
he  responded  and  looked  more  like  a  girl  than  ever,  show 
ing  his  white  teeth.  "  Well,  then,  if  I  don't  look  as  ragged 
as  I  feel,  it 's  because  I  've  got  this  blasted  pink-and-white 
skin." 

"Don't  you  like  your  complexion?" 

cc  Like  it  ?  Think  you  'd  like  to  have  a  complexion  if  you 
were  n't  a  girl  ?  Fellows  don't  have  complexions.  They  have 
skin." 


26o      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"How  can  you  say  you  don't  like  it,"  returned  Celia,  in 
one  of  her  too  direct  commendations. 

The  universally  popular,  she  had  reasoned  long  ago,  was 
the  universally  complaisant,  and  no  harsh  comment,  no  lost 
opportunity  for  an  ingratiating  speech,  did  she  permit  her 
self.  They  had,  by  an  involuntary  accord,  sauntered  down 
the  steps  together,  down  the  path  into  the  street.  Now  they 
were  pacing  along  under  its  elms. 

"  Sometimes  I  think  I  '11  stain  myself  all  over  with  wal 
nut  juice,"  said  Tim,  though  cheerfully,  not  at  all  fitting  the 
gloom  of  his  discontent.  "  Or  black,  like  a  nigger.  This 
rosy-posy  stunt  won't  do  when  you  're  going  into  business. 
It 's  against  you.  Worse  than  a  stutter  when  you  're  trying 
to  sell  a  bill  o'  goods." 

He  took  off  his  hat  to  match  her  bare  head,  and  ribbons 
of  sunlight  through  the  elms  fell  on  the  gold  of  his  hair 
and  lighted  it  to  the  absurdest  commentary  on  his  discon 
tent. 

"  Are  you  going  into  business?"  Celia  asked,  to  keep  the 
topic  moving. 

She  was  glad  to  be  walking  somewhere,  in  motion,  before 
Lovell  could  hurry  through  his  business  trysts  to  find  her. 
She  might  bear  it  to  meet  him  in  the  street,  —  never,  she 
thought,  at  arm's  reach  again. 

"  You  bet  I  'm  going  into  business." 

"What  kind?" 

"  Oh,  I  'm  going  into  business  all  right.  Say,"  Timothy 
threw  at  her  like  a  return  to  confidential  speech,  "  I  know 
an  awfully  good  thing,  and  I  'd  let  anybody  in  that  would 
help  me.  But  I  'm  blocked,  just  blocked." 

Celia  wanted  to  say,  "  Let  me  in.  I  'm  blocked,  too,  and 
I  would  I  had  the  money  to  buy  my  ticket  out  again  to 
freedom."  But  what  she  said,  according  to  her  way  of  em- 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      261 

broidering  the  garments  of  common  life,  was  a  sympathetic 
"Can't  some  of  us  help  you?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Timothy  moodily. 

He  looked  like  a  sulky  child,  and  with  his  hat  struck  at 
the  twigs  looking  over  the  tops  of  garden  fences.  "  Winter- 
bourne  could  help  me." 

"Why,  he  would,"  said  Celia.  "Just  ask  him.  I'll  ask 
him  for  you." 

"I 've  asked  him,  in  a  way.  He's  a  mule.  Winterbourne's 
a  pig-headed  mule." 

Celia  thought  he  might  be.  She  had  found  no  thorough 
fare  with  Winterbourne.  They  had  turned  into  the  open 
road,  and  she  indicated  with  a  nod  an  old  house  sleeping  in 
a  grass-tangled  yard,  a  house  with  blinds  hanging  and  a 
wintry  look  of  not  wanting  to  live  any  more. 

"  I  often  go  in  there  and  sit  on  the  steps  and  think,"  she 
said. 

So  they  turned  in  and  up  the  path  where  bouncing-bet 
was  cheerful,  and  by  and  by  two  or  three  persistent  sweet- 
williams,  stragglers  from  old  time,  would  bloom,  and  sat 
down  together  on  the  rickety  steps  under  the  blackened 
knocker. 

"  The  fellow  that  owned  this  was  like  the  rest  of  us," 
said  Tim  gloomily.  "  Some  of  us,  I  mean,  here  in  Clyde. 
We  just  can't  stir  our  stumps  to  get  ahead,  and  the  moss 
grows  over  us." 

"Does  Hopkins  the  builder  live  round  here?"  she  in 
quired,  with  a  sudden  thought. 

He  stared  at  her. 

"What  do  you  want  of  Hopkins?" 

"  Nothing.   I  want  to  know  where  he  is." 

"  Way  over  the  other  end  of  the  town." 

She  sighed  with  relief,  and  delivered  herself  up  to  the 


262      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

enjoyment  of  the  day.  Lovell,  she  was  glad  to  believe,  was 
safe  with  Hopkins. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  leaning  cosily  against  the  trellis  thick 
with  jessamine,  "  tell  me  about  your  business  troubles." 

"  I  told  mother  and  she  jumped  on  me.  I  'd  tell  Lovell 
in  a  minute  if  I  could  get  anything  out  of  him.  Do  you 
really  want  to  know  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  want  to  know." 

The  bees  humming  in  the  white  clover  along  the  path 
made  her  sigh  with  the  pleasure  of  summer's  kindness,  and 
think,  too,  they  were  so  busy,  of  Bess  at  home.  Celia  had 
an  impression  she  should  like  to  work,  if  only  she  could  find 
something  worthy  an  ornamental  young  maid's  doing.  But 
the  present  moment  was  a  pleasing  one.  Here  was  Timothy 
ready  to  like  her  very  much,  in  a  simple  fashion,  and  he  had 
nothing  to  offer  her  beyond  the  liking.  She  need  not  turn 
and  twist  the  pattern  of  it  to  make  it  more  or  less.  She  felt 
companioned  in  a  way. 

"  Well,  you  '11  just  have  to  keep  it  to  yourself." 

Tim  was  dying  to  tell  her.  He  felt  very  important  over 
his  scheme,  and  he  was  as  yet  unrecognized.  His  mother 
had  threatened  him  when  he  showed  her  the  outermost  folds 
of  it.  Celia,  he  knew,  would  treat  him  like  a  man. 

"  I  won't  tell,"  said  Celia. 

"Honest?  Hope  to  die?" 

"Hope  to  die." 

"  Well,  it 's  about  an  ear-trumpet." 

"How  funny.  Whose?" 

"  Winterbourne's  —  the  one  he  invented." 

"  How  nice  and  quaint  that  was  of  him." 

"Well,  he'd  have  been  quainter  if  he 'd  invented  some 
thing  and  sold  it." 

"  Perhaps  he  can't  sell  things.   He  's  not  that  kind." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      263 

"  He 's  too  lazy.  There's  Winter-bourne's  weak  spot.  He 
won't  patent  it." 

"  I  think  that's  nice,"  said  Celia  cosily,  liking  the  summer 
sounds  and  airs  more  and  more.  She  was  only  half  listening. 

"You  do,  do  you?  Well,  I  don't.  Do  you  know  how 
many  deafies  there  are  in  the  United  States?" 

"  No." 

"  Do  you  know  how  many  there  are  in  the  continent  of 
Europe,  in  the  world?" 

"No;  do  you?" 

"Well,  no,"  said  Tim,  oratorically  collapsing,  "I  don't. 
But  I  mean  to  before  I  start  my  company." 

"  What  company  ?  " 

"  Winterbourne  won't  patent  his  trumpet.  Does  it  occur 
to  you  what  that  means  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  It  did  not  seem  to  her  much  of  a 
summer-day's  dream. 

"  Well,  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  means.  You  girls  !  you  don't 
know  anything  that  amounts  to  a  Hannah.  Somebody  else  '11 
get  hold  of  it  and  patent  it,  and  they  '11  make  money  out 
of  it,  mints  of  money." 

"  Mr.  Winterbourne  won't  let  them." 

"  He  can't  help  it  if  they  've  done  it." 

"He'd  expose  them." 

"  Pah  !  what  harm  's  that  do  when  the  thing's  selling  like 
blazes  ?  If  a  man  wants  to  hear  the  clock  tick,  you  don't 
s'pose  he's  going  to  say,  ( I  won't  buy  that  elegant  trumpet 
because  those  Johnnies  are  quarrelling  over  the  patent,'  do 
you  ?  Well,  I  should  say  not." 

"  It 's  very  interesting,"  said  Celia,  because  this  was  a 
word  that  covered  so  much  :  imperfect  understanding  of  a 
dull  situation,  even  inattention  on  her  part.  She  hardly 
dared  ask  a  question  now  after  that  moment's  somnolence, 


264      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

because  it  might  touch  the  very  point  he  had  just  been  elu 
cidating. 

"  So,"  said  Timothy,  "  I  'm  going  to  get  out  the  patent 
myself." 

That  roused  her. 

"You?  He  won't  let  you." 

"  He  can't  help  himself.  I  'm  not  going  to  tell  Winter- 
bourne,  am  I  ?  He  Jll  find  it  out  when  the  patent 's  safe  and 
the  factories  are  roaring  out  trumpets,  three  hundred  thou 
sand  million  a  day,  sold  at  twenty  dollars  apiece,  net." 

This  seemed  in  some  way  to  touch  the  family  interests, 
and  Celia  felt  she  ought  to  do  something;  yet  it  was  all 
imperfectly  understood,  and  though  ready  to  take  an  atti 
tude,  she  hardly  knew  what  one  was  appropriate. 

"  But  it's  his  trumpet,"  she  offered  weakly. 

u  Well,  s'pose  he  had  a  million  dollars,  now,  that  he 
would  n't  put  in  the  bank  and  would  n't  give  away  and  did  n't 
spend.  S'pose  I  saw  it  lying  in  the  middle  of  the  road  to 
tempt  all  the  crooks  or  get  ground  into  the  ruts  by  teams 
—  if  I  said,  CI  '11  just  cart  that  million  dollars  off  to  the 
bank  for  Winterbourne,  and  when  he  's  ready  for  it  he  '11 
find  it's  been  rolling  up  at  four  per  cent,'  —  well,  now, 
should  you  call  me  a  good  pious  little  boy  or  should  n't 
you?" 

Celia  felt  his  own  glow  at  the  cleverness  of  it  all.  She  sat 
up  and  began  to  listen. 

"  If  you  're  going  to  do  it  for  him  —  " 

"  I  'm  going  to  do  it  because  he  won't  do  it,"  said  Tim 
fractiously,  if  grandly.  "  I  expect  to  be  paid  for  it.  I  expect 
to  take  some  stock." 

"Stock?" 

"  Why,  yes.  We  shall  form  a  company.  Folks  '11  put  in 
capital.  Some  of  the  stock  will  be  in  Winterbourne's  name. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      265 

He  '11  wake  up  some  day  and  wish  he  had  half  a  dollar  in 
the  bank.  Then  I  '11  say  to  him,  c  Well,  there  's  your  stock 
in  the  Pan-pipes  Company.  It's  up  to  seven  hundred  and 
eighty  now.  Why  don't  you  realize?" 

"  Pan-pipes.   Is  that  what  it 's  called  ?" 

"  Yes.   He  named  it.   Bully  name  !  " 

"When  are  you  going  to  tell  him?" 

"Holy  Peter!   If  I  told  him,  he'd  scuttle  the  ship." 

"You  said  he  couldn't." 

"  He  can't  after  I  've  got  the  patent.  I  've  taken  my  first 
steps.  That 's  what  mother  read  the  riot  act  about.  Mad ! 
Never  saw  a  woman  so  mad.  I  told  her  the  morning  she 
took  to  her  bed.  She  said  I  'd  got  to  get  back  the  trumpet 
and  go  right  straight  over  and  tell  him  all  about  it.  Well, 
I  should  say  !" 

"  But  where  did  you  get  the  trumpet?" 

Tim  looked  at  her  and  smiled.  He  sang  a  line  of  a  pop 
ular  song. 

"  That 's  telling,"  said  he. 

Celia  shook  her  head  at  him.  He  seemed  an  irresponsible 
boy,  but  not  to  be  seriously  reprimanded  because  the  tex 
ture  of  his  intentions  hung  so  flimsily.  Tim  couldn't  do 
any  harm.  You  had  only  to  look  at  him  to  see  that.  This 
was  an  inconsiderable  comedy  it  pleased  him  to  think  clever 
enough  to  be  played.  It  never  would  be,  so  let  her  take  it 
at  his  valuation  and  give  him  the  comfort  of  it.  But  she 
was  as  silly  as  he,  and  a  quick  heat  stained  her  face  almost, 
it  seemed,  before  she  recognized  the  thought  that  gave  it 
birth.  He  was  a  foolish  boy  and  this  a  summer-day's  tale, 
but  yet,  was  there  something  in  it  to  coax  fortune  to  come 
walking  over  the  Winterbourne  threshold  ? 

"How  are  you  blocked? "  she  persisted.  "You  said  you 
were  blocked." 


266      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"Why,  there's  a  woman  got  one  of  the  trumpets.  Win- 
terbourne  gave  it  to  her.  Lovell  knows  it,  and  Hunter,  too, 
I  guess.  But  I  wanted  to  get  it  out  of  her  hands." 

"What  for?" 

Here  he  hesitated. 

"  Why,  if  Winterbourne  cuts  up  rough,  if  he  swears  he 
invented  it,  that'll  help  give  him  a  case.  I  don't  want  one 
of  'em  in  existence  besides  the  one  I  've  submitted  for  my 
patent." 

"  But  he  did  invent  it." 

"  Oh,  not  so  you  'd  notice  it,  not  if  he  won't  patent  it.  If 
I  pick  up  an  apple  in  the  road,  ain't  it  my  apple  ?  The  one 
that 's  going  to  be  patented  is  the  one  I  've  handed  in." 

"Money!"  breathed  Celia  involuntarily.  "Think  of 
having  money." 

"  Well,  you  will  have  money,"  said  Tim  composedly.  "I 
wish  the  thing  was  something  universal,  an  egg-beater  or  a 
glove-snap  or  a  tack.  A  few  weeks  ago,  I  thought  I  'd  in 
vented  a  tack,  —  double-headed.  No  go!  First  hardware 
man  damned  it.  But  I  guess  there  are  dearies  enough.  Say  ! " 
From  his  lips  even  Celia  did  not  find  the  challenging  mon 
osyllable  offensive.  It  was  ingenuous,  confiding  rather.  "  I 
believe  I  '11  tell  you  how  little  Timothy  went  on  his  adven 
tures  to  find  the  lost  trumpet  and  how  he  got  busted  by  the 
way.  Swear  you  never  '11  tell  ?  " 

Celia  nodded.  Her  color  was  high.  He  thought  she  was 
the  nicest  girl  he  had  ever  seen,  and  game  to  a  remarkable 
degree. 

"  Say,"  he  confided  to  her.  "  I  believe  you  're  a  sport." 
It  was  a  compliment  of  the  purest  water,  but  she  could  not 
stop  to  curtsey  for  it.  "  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  did.  I  laid  for 
the  neighbors  of  the  Stapleses  and  I  talked  with  'em  about 
hens,  about  eggs,  about  calves,  about  ducks.  I  walked  out 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      267 

that  way  every  morning.  I  told  'em  I  was  walking  off  my 
flesh." 

"  You  have  n't  any  flesh." 

"That's  because  I  've  walked  it  off.  Then  one  day  one 
of 'em  said  the  Stapleses  that  used  to  live  over  this  way  had 
gone  to  Backer's  Falls.  I  collared  mother  that  night  and  got 
five  dollars  off 'n  her,  and  I  spent  it  in  a  ticket  to  Backer's 
Falls  and  a  ticket  back.  Then  I  tottered  round  till  I  came 
on  the  Stapleses." 

"Didn't  you  ask?" 

"  I  guess  not.  Nobody  's  going  to  say  when  Jack  Win- 
terbourne  hauls  me  over  the  coals  that  I  went  anywhere  pre 
meditated.  I  saw  that  sleazy  daughter  that 's  Lyddy's  cousin, 
and  she  said,  '  Why,  Timothy  Ramsay,  when  'd  you  blow 
down  ?  Mother  was  taken  away  last  week.' ' 

"  Taken  away?" 

"  Died.  So  I  saw  it  was  destiny,  and  I  said, (  Where  's  that 
ear-trumpet?'  cln  the  house,'  says  she, c  and  as  soon  as  I  can 
leave  the  children  long  enough,  I  'm  going  to  carry  it  back 
to  Mr.  Winterbourne.  He  was  very  kind,'  says  she,  (  but 
he  did  scare  me  'most  to  death  the  night  I  went  there.' ' 

"  So  you  took  it  back  for  her?" 

"  I  offered  to,  but  do  you  s'pose  she  'd  let  me  touch  it  ? 
No!  Mr.  Winterbourne  had  been  very  kind  to  her,  she 
said,  and  't  was  but  right  she  should  pass  it  into  his  own 
hand." 

"  I  don't  believe  she  has  done  it,"  Celia  reflected.  "  I 
have  n't  seen  any  such  person." 

"  I  don't  believe  she  has,  but  if  I  meet  her  with  it  in  the 
dark,  I  'm  going  to  garrote  her  and  pick  her  pocket  of  it. 
I  don't  want  Winterbourne  to  see  that  trumpet  again.  I 
don't  want  him  reminded  of  it.  If  nobody  says  trumpet,  he 
never '11  think  of  it  till  the  day  o'  doom.  I  want  it,  though. 


268      JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

I  want  to  get  it  into  my  own  hands.  I  want  to  rid  the  earth 
of  pan-pipes  except  the  one  I  Ve  put  in  train  for  Washington." 

Celia  was  looking  at  him  innocently. 

"You  're  awfully  clever,  are  n't  you  ?  "  she  inquired. 

He  glanced  at  her  in  some  suspicion,  and  then  enlarged 
perceptibly. 

"  How  could  you  know  it  would  be  so  easy,"  she  pursued, 
"  to  make  your  application,  to  get  people  interested?" 

"  That 's  the  joke  of  it.  Who  'd  you  s'pose  I  went  to  ? 
Old  Gregory.  Father  works  for  him." 

"Then  your  father  knows?" 

"  Not  he.  But  I  went  to  old  Gregory.  He  took  to  it  like 
a  mouse  to  cheese." 

"  You  persuaded  him  !  Oh,  you  must  be  clever  !  " 

Tim  shook  his  head.  He  would  gladly  have  had  it  so, 
but  the  reason  was  too  palpable. 

"  Old  Gregory,"  said  he,  and  laughed,  "  old  Gregory  's 
deafer  'n  two  posts." 

"  So  he  tried  it." 

"  Mm.  He  was  sitting  there  in  his  office  like  a  frog, 
swelled  all  up.  You  know  the  kind,  all  bonds  and  truffles. 
You  could  see  he  ate  like  a  pig  every  day  of  his  life. 
Father  's  afraid  of  him  as  he  is  of  old  Nick.  I  got  into  the 
office.  He  looked  as  if  he  'd  eat  me.  (  What 's  this,  what 's 
this?'  said  he.  I  passed  him  pan-pipes  and  poked  it  at  his 
ear.  Mad  ?  My  word  !  I  believe  he  thought  I  was  going  to 
dynamite  him.  But  what  do  you  s'pose  !  he  began  to  hear. 
I  wish  you  could  have  seen  him!  I  snatched  it  away  from 
him  then.  I  thought  he  'd  eat  it.  c  You  the  agent?'  said  he. 
c  How  much  is  it  ? '  Then  I  got  him  to  understand  it  was  n't 
an  ear-trumpet  only.  It  was  a  gold  mine.  And  old  Gregory 
took  hold  and  he 's  been  pushing  ever  since.  Little  Timothy 
has  n't  had  to  do  a  darned  thing." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      269 

Celia  was  listening  now.  She  hardly  knew  even  the  terms 
of  conventional  business,  and  this  began  to  seem  to  her  a 
scheme  of  gigantic  proportions,  brilliant,  but  wrong  some 
where,  though  where  she  was  not  exactly  sure.  It  really 
looked  to  her  as  if  Timothy  were  assuming  a  credit  which 
should  be  Winterbourne's;  but  then  she  knew  how  Winter- 
bourne  would  fulminate  against  receiving  any  credit  whatso 
ever.  Again  it  looked  as  if  Timothy  had  helped  himself 
freely  to  another  man's  property,  and  yet  she  seemed  to  see 
in  him  a  shining  altruist  who  would  preserve  to  Winter- 
bourne  the  fortune  he  ignored.  Then  she  asked  the  ques 
tion  of  all  questions,— 

"  It  couldn't  make  money,  could  it?" 

It  could,  he  told  her,  and  descanted  on  the  prospect  until 
•  she,  too,  kindled.  But  if  it  was  so  important  that  Winter- 
bourne  should  be  hoodwinked,  why  was  he  telling  his 
mother,  why  was  he  telling  her  at  this  present  time  ?  Tim 
looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  at  a  loss.  He  had,  she  saw, 
hardly  thought  of  that  in  its  clear  proportions.  Then  he 
recovered  himself. 

"A  man  has  to  speak  to  somebody,"  he  said,  and  she  saw. 
He  had  been  too  vain  to  keep  close  counsel.  He  was  swag 
gering  perceptibly  now.  "  Mother  never  'd  open  her  head 
if  she  said  she  wouldn't.  Mother  looks  like  Joseph's  coat, 
but  she  's  a  good  fellow  all  the  same.  Don't  you  s'pose  I 
made  her  take  the  oath  before  I  let  her  in,  same  as  I  did 
you?  Did  n't  I  swear  you  in  ?  " 


XXI 

LYDDY  was  not  very  strong.  Her  back  was  no  back 
at  all,  so  far  as  old-time  lifting  or  agile  service  went; 
her  legs  were  so  stiff  of  a  morning  that,  if  there  had 
been  no  question  of  kitchen  prerogative,  she  might  not  have 
come  down  at  all.  But  a  change  was  manifest  in  the  ease  of 
the  work,  and  the  eyes  and  the  indifference  of  old  age  kept 
her  from  seeing  why.  Lyddy  worshipped  order,  but  the 
lethargy  of  her  years  was  upon  her,  and  Bess  silently  went 
over  her  tasks  and  made  them  right.  But  however  she  left 
the  kitchen  at  supper-time  for  an  evening  of  small  cares  with 
her  patients,  in  the  morning  it  was  in  fine  array  with  a  rigid 
cleanliness  to  be  remarked.  One  evening,  at  last,  she  came 
down  early  on  a  version  of  the  sight  that  had  staggered 
Winterbourne  a  fortnight  before  :  Dwight  Hunter,  in  work 
ing  shirt-sleeves  of  dark  blue,  the  matted  hair  wet  on  his 
forehead,  and  a  look  of  absorption  on  his  face  such  as  indi 
cates  the  serving  male  in  tasks  "not  realized,"  —  a  look  of 
care,  of  scrutinizing  worry,  —  was  hanging  the  mop  in  its 
place  outside  the  door  leading  down  into  the  shed.  She 
looked  inevitably  at  the  floor.  It  was  damp,  but  carefully 
dried,  its  yellow  surface  shining.  The  enormity  of  his  inter 
ference  broke  upon  her,  the  probably  long  continuance  of  it, 
and  Bess,  the  serene,  felt  her  cheeks  grow  hot.  Hunter  also 
began  to  regard  the  floor  and  their  eyes  met  over  the  clean 
expanse  of  it.  Her  eyes  were  angry  eyes.  He  saw  that,  and 
his  heart  failed,  not  so  much  because  he  wanted  to  please  her, 
but  that  discovery  put  an  end  to  more  service  for  her,  more 
stolen  moments  of  filling  kerosene  cans  and  washing  lamp- 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      271 

chimneys,  more  consecrated  sweeping  of  floors  to  the  end 
that  her  back  should  not  be  bent.  She  spoke :  - 

"  What  are  you  doing  in  this  kitchen?" 

He  had  recovered  himself.  The  game  was  lost,  but  doubt 
less  he  could  conceive  other  ways  of  easing  her.  After  all, 
her  displeasure  was  only  the  temporary  expression  of  the 
distaste  he  knew  she  felt  for  him. 

"  I  was  just  going,"  he  said.  "  Good-night." 

Bess,  with  an  unconscious  sense  of  sacredness  in  a  floor 
newly  washed,  glanced  down  before  she  set  her  foot  on  it. 
But  it  was  dry  enough,  and  she  advanced  upon  him. 

"What  have  you  been  doing?"  she  threw  at  him.  She 
was  beautiful,  enraged.  Her  soft,  kind  loveliness  bloomed 
out  hotly  and  flamed  into  a  bacchic  grace.  He  stared  at 
her.  "What  is  it?"  she  commanded,  like  a  mother  or  a 
school-teacher  admonishing  erring  boyhood.  "  Why  don't 
you  tell  me?" 

"  I  can't,"  said  Hunter  with  simplicity.  "  You  're  so 
pretty." 

That  seemed  the  top-notch  of  insult,  to  wash  a  floor  and 
then  say  he  could  n't  answer  because  she  was  so  pretty.  She 
softened  a  little,  making  no  doubt  he  really  was  touched  in 
the  brain.  "  Did  you  do  this  floor  ?  "  she  still  demanded. 

He  plucked  up  will  to  face  her. 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"  What  for  ?  " 

Guile,  the  friend  of  cowardice,  came  to  him,  pelting  along 
with  horse  and  sword. 

"To  save  Lyddy's  doing  it." 

Her  face  smoothed  into  the  calm  he  loved.  Its  own  rosy 
glow  overspread  it. 

"  Did  you  truly  ?  "  said  Bess.  "  I  think  that  was  awfully 
nice." 


272      JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

He  felt  no  compunction.  Joy  was  in  him  and  a  pleasur 
able  surprise  that  it  was  going  to  be  so  easy  to  get  a  part 
of  his  way. 

"  Lyddy 's  an  old  woman,"  he  rejoined  piously. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  in  a  thoughtful  concurrence.  "I  ought 
to  help  her  more.  But  I  get  so  busy  in  the  rest  of  the  house. 
I  must  look  out  for  the  kitchen  better  than  I  have." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Hunter,  in  haste.  "  That  would  upset  her. 
It  stirs  her  up  when  you  work  too  hard." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it.   Lyddy  's  been  good  to  me." 

"  I  can  do  a  little  turn  like  this  any  night,"  said  Hercules 
largely.  "If  you  catch  me  at  it,  just  don't  say  anything,  and 
there  we  are.  I  should  feel  like  an  awful  fool  to  have  any 
body  find  it  out." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  It  isn't  man's  work,"  she  admonished  him. 

"  Gammon  !  what  is  man's  work  ?  " 

"  Not  kitchen  things." 

He  understood,  though  she  could  not  tell  him,  that  man's 
work  to  her  was  the  largely  picturesque,  the  struggle  with 
the  earth  and  the  weather,  not  such  piffling  jobs  as  this  ;  and 
his  heart  swelled,  appropriating  its  own  atomic  part  of  the 
general  commendation.  The  barriers  seemed  to  be  down  be 
tween  them  because  she  had  reproved  him, —  nay,  in  a  more 
unstilted  fashion,  scolded  him  as  mothers  do,  and  wives. 

"  This  is  no  place  for  a  man  anyway,"  she  announced. 

"What?  This  kitchen?  Clyde?" 

She  nodded. 

"  You  're  all  settling  down,"  she  continued,  in  her  tone  of 
conviction,  "like  old  maids." 

"  I  don't  feel  much  like  an  old  maid,"  he  ventured. 

She  had  embarked  on  her  certainties,  evolved  in  thinking 
while  she  tended  her  two  invalids. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      273 

"  There  's  you  and  Mr.  Lovell  and  Mr.  Winterbourne. 
You  Ve  all  been  living  alone  just  long  enough." 

"  So  I  think,"  he  hastened  to  supply. 

But  she  was  looking  at  him  from  the  most  ingenuous 
innocence. 

"  I  can  understand  about  Mr.  Winterbourne/'  she  went 
on.  "  He  's  studying." 

"  No,  he  is  n't  either,"  Hunter  threw  back  at  her.  "  He  's 
reading  a  book  he  likes,  and  it 's  no  more  to  his  credit  than 
if  he  read  a  novel.  Winterbourne  's  as  lazy  as  they  make 
'em." 

The  flash  came  into  her  eyes. 

" Oh,  how  can  you?"  she  reproached  him. 

He  had  checked  their  better  understanding  and  remem 
bered  it  too  late.  But  scruples  were  as  nothing  to  him.  He 
hastened  to  repair  his  blunder. 

"  Winterbourne  's  a  good  chap.  I  Ve  no  quarrel  with  what 
he 's  doing.  But  Lovell  and  me  —  what 's  the  matter  with  us  ? " 

"  You  're  settled  down.  It 's  no  kind  of  a  life  for  a  man  to 
shut  himself  up  and  do  his  own  housework  and  read  books." 

"  We  don't  do  our  own  housework,"  he  reminded  her. 
"  Mary  Manahan  does." 

She  gave  a  little  decided  shake  of  the  head. 

"  I  can't  help  it.  You  eat  alone  and  go  out  and  leave  the 
dishes  on  the  table.  It's  awful." 

Hunter  was  looking  at  her  with  a  broad  smile  that  told, 
if  she  had  not  been  too  absorbed  to  see  it,  how  dear  he 
thought  her. 

"  What  do  you  want  us  to  do?"  he  inquired.  "  Stay  and 
clear  up,  or  take  the  dishes  with  us  ?" 

"You  know  what  I  mean."  She  frowned  a  little.  "Some 
times  they  wait  there  half  the  forenoon,  before  she  gets 
round." 


274      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  Oh5  that  it?  Well,  that  does  n't  hurt  me  any.  They  're 
washed  by  the  time  I  'm  home  —  'most  always." 

"  It  isn't  as  if  you  had  to  live  that  way,  either  of  you. 
Lyddy  says  so." 

His  heart  gave  an  athletic  bound.  Lyddy  had  talked  about 
him,  unsolicited,  perhaps,  but  Bess  had  listened. 

"  It  is  a  poor  life,"  he  said  artfully.  "It 's  infernally  lone 
some." 

"  That  is  n't  it.  It 's  no  matter  whether  folks  are  lone 
some  or  whether  they  're  not.  But  it  is  n't  decent." 

"  What  better  do  you  think  we  could  do  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  she  had  a  pleasant  secret  to  tell. 

"  You  could  go  abroad." 

"  Go  abroad  !  "  That  was  the  last  thing  he  had  expected 
to  find  hidden  in  her. 

"  Yes,  you  could  go  everywhere  and  tramp,  and  see  things, 
and  talk  with  folks.  And  you  're  a  man  and  you  could  go 
alone." 

"  Yes,"  said  Hunter,  again  artfully,  "  that 's  the  cinch  a 
man  has.  Now  if  you  wanted  to  go  ever  so  much,  you 
could  n't  do  it  alone,  could  you  ?  " 

"  I  would,"  she  said  under  her  breath,  but  he  caught  it. 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  ? "  he  asked  her.  "  Is  that  what 
you'd  like?" 

But  the  glow  had  died  out  of  her;  it  might  have  been 
that  she  hastily  let  fall  the  curtain  between  them. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said  bluffly.  "  Besides,  I  'm  too  busy." 

He  saw  the  talk  was  over,  but  he  persistently  drew  her 
back,  by  more  speciousness  cleverly  continued. 

"  I  might  like  to  go,"  he  said  meditatively,  yet  watching 
her.  He  wanted  so  much  to  detain  her  in  this  kind  mood 
of  half-intimacy  that  it  looked  as  if,  should  she  turn  to  leave 
him  really,  he  might  have  to  lay  hand  upon  her  skirt  like 


JOHN,  WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       275 

the  child  he  felt  with  her  and  draw  her  back.  "  I  went  over 
once,  the  summer  I  was  out  of  college." 

She  woke  again  to  her  warm  interest. 

"  To  Italy  ?    Did  you  go  to  Italy  ? " 

"Yes,  I  went  to  Italy." 

"  Mr.  Winterbourne  says  you  almost  go  crazy  there,  it's 
so  —  different." 

The  right  word  had  escaped  her,  he  saw.  She  had  de 
clined  breathlessly  on  the  bathos  of  this.  But  the  fire  in  her 
lent  itself  to  him.  He  remembered  in  a  flash  many  things 
he  had  not  thought  of  every  day  in  the  working  stress  of  his 
life  here.  He  had  a  shy  passion  of  his  own  for  poetry  and 
all  the  lighter,  brighter  garland  of  life  we  call  art,  though 
he  had  not  had  space  of  late  to  nourish  it,  so  bent  was  he 
on  making  good  in  his  chosen  occupations.  He  did  have 
time  to  wonder  at  this  new  side  of  her,  that  she  who  was 
perennially  in  the  dress  of  a  workwoman,  and  whose  hands 
knew  no  distaste  of  toil,  should  seem  to  be  recalling  him  to 
the  sweet  hungers  outside  toil  itself. 

"  You  'd  like  it,  Bess,"  he  said,  and  neither  noticed  he 
had  made  free  with  her  name.  Indeed  she,  servant  as  she 
was,  was  too  used  to  it  to  think  it  strange.  "  You  'd  love 
Italy." 

"  He  says  so,"  she  returned,  her  soft  eyes  taking  on  their 
look  of  absent  musing ;  and  he  felt  again  the  thrill  of  jeal 
ous  rage  he  often  had  when  she  looked  at  Winterbourne  or 
spoke  of  him. 

"  You  see,  I  'm  busy,  too,"  he  reminded  her,  in  that  un 
changed  desire  to  keep  her  with  him. 

She  shook  her  head.  Again,  he  saw,  she  disapproved, 
and  he  liked  that.  It  brought  them  nearer. 

"You  can  play  on  the  fiddle,"  she  said,  "and  you  don't 
practise.  You  just  see  to  clams  and  teaming." 


276      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

He  ventured  a  little  rallying  of  his  own. 

"  You  can't  say  anything.  You  can  sing,  and  you  spend 
your  time  cooking  and  making  beds." 

"  That 's  different.  Singing 's  nothing.  Anybody  can 
sing." 

"  Now  what  a  fool  thing  that  is  to  say."  He  wondered 
if  a  little  tender  roughness  would  draw  them  nearer.  "  I 
can't." 

"  I  mean  it 's  so  easy.  If  you  can,  you  can,  and  there  's 
an  end  of  it." 

"You  just  don't  want  to  sing,  do  you?"  he  pursued,  in 
a  real  curiosity  now.  "  You  're  as  obstinate  as  —  you  're 
frightfully  obstinate." 

She  was  looking  thoughtfully  out  through  the  darkened 
window. 

"  I  don't  suppose  I  can  make  you  see,"  she  said.  "  Yes, 
I  'd  like  to  sing,  if  it  would  please  folks." 

"It  does  please  them,  doesn't  it?  Don't  you  know 
that  ?  " 

"  He  says  it  does." 

She  spoke  shyly,  yet  not,  he  saw,  for  any  reason  connected 
with  himself.  It  was  her  elderly  god,  he  ironically  thought, 
the  man  taking  his  evening  walk  now  along  country  roads 
and  thinking  of  Theocritus. 

"  Who  's  he  ?  Winterbourne  ?  " 

She  nodded. 

"  Yes,  he  talked  to  me  about  it.  I  'm  going  to  do  it  when 
ever  I  can,  so's  to  get  used  to  it.  He  says  it's  my  talent.  So 
I  can't  fold  it  up  in  a  napkin." 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  sweet  humility  as  if  she  wondered 
if  he  would  confirm  that ;  and  so  imbued  was  he  with  the 
pity  of  seeing  her  always  at  household  tasks,  that  he  had  an 
absurd  picture  of  her  at  a  table  folding  something  shiny  in 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      277 

the  glossiest  of  white  napkins  she  had  ironed.  He  had  rough, 
crass  things  to  say  to  her.  He  wanted  to  accuse  her :  "  I 
believe  you  don't  see  anything  in  this  world  except  through 
Winterbourne's  eyes,"  —  but  he  knew  she  would  answer, 
out  of  the  childlike  clarity  of  her  innocence,  that  she  need 
not.  Why  should  she?  Winterbourne  was  here  to  see  for 
her.  She  was  turning  away  to  the  cupboard. 

"  I  just  came  down  to  get  some  water  for  the  night,"  she 
said,  and  when  she  brought  the  pitcher,  he  began  pumping 
for  her.  That  was  the  happiest  minute  Dwight  Hunter 
thought  he  had  ever  had,  to  do  something  for  her  with  the 
strength  of  his  arm  while  she  stood  by  waiting,  acquiescing 
in  his  service.  He  believed  he  had  learned  things  about  her 
to-night,  things  that  made  her  more  lovely.  To  this  moment 
he  had  followed  her  and  longed  for  her  because  the  innocent 
appeal  of  her  hidden  nature  had  awakened  harmonizing 
notes  in  him.  Now  she  had  opened  a  door,  and  he  had 
looked  into  the  ordered  stillness  of  her  mind  where  were 
desires,  light,  bright  lamps  tended,  illuminating  what  she 
would  like  to  be.  Winterbourne  had  roused  her,  he  could 
see,  to  at  least  a  wistful  sense  that  there  were  beauties  out 
side  her  restricted  room  of  life,  paths  where  she  might  walk 
if  she  ever  escaped  the  drudgery  of  the  present  task.  He 
gave  Winterbourne  credit  for  that,  angry  as  he  was  over  her 
unquestioning  obedience  to  him.  Winterbourne  had  awak 
ened  something  in  her,  some  desire  to  grow.  She  came  out 
of  her  muse  and  turned  to  him,  practicality  again  on  her  lips. 

"That  little  boy  with  the  hair  off  the  top  of  his  head 
where  he  got  scalded  belongs  to  one  of  the  men  that  works 
for  you." 

Hunter,  recalled  from  the  vision  of  her  in  Italy,  wander 
ing  and  singing,  adored  for  her  beauty  and  her  voice,  could 
only  stare  at  her. 


278      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  I  met  him  the  other  day,  smoking,"  said  Bess.  "You  'd 
better  speak  to  him  about  it." 

"  Did  n't  you  speak  to  him  ?  "  he  responded,  rising  val 
iantly  to  meet  whatever  she  might  expect  of  him. 

"  I  did,  but  he  would  n't  care  anything  about  me.  I  'm 
nothing  but  a  woman.  Tim  Ramsay  was  laughing  at  him, 
and  the  boy  thought  it  was  grand.  I  '11  set  the  pitcher  down 
here.  I  guess  I  '11  fasten  up  now,  after  you  go." 

There  was  no  way  but  to  go,  yet  on  the  step  he  paused  a 
minute.  "  How  did  you  know  who  the  boy  was  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Oh,  he  belongs  to  the  club." 

"  What  club  ?   Mrs.  Ramsay's  ?  " 

"  It's  the  same  boys.  It's  a  kind  of  a  glee  club  now.  I 
go  down  two  evenings  a  week  and  we  sing." 

"  How  do  you  get  there  ?  " 

He  wondered  if  Winterbourne  went  with  her. 

"  Why,  I  just  go." 

"Walk?" 

"Yes." 

"Alone?" 

"Why,  yes.  I  don't  speak  about  it.   She  would  n't  like  it." 

He  knew  nothing  about  the  filial  use  of  the  pronoun. 
She,  he  thought,  meant  Mrs.  Ramsay,  who  might  not  like 
to  have  her  club  reft  from  her. 

"  Are  you  teaching  those  little  chaps  to  sing  ? "  he  asked 
her,  melted  at  her  beneficence. 

Bess  laughed.   Her  white  teeth  became  her. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  know  one  note  from  another. 
I  learn  'em  things  by  ear,  and  we  sing  'em  together." 

She  was  shutting  the  door,  and  he  walked  away.  She 
had  said  "  learn,"  and  he  had  heard  her  with  ears  attuned 
to  the  academic  speech  of  Clyde,  but  it  seemed  to  him 
funnily  sweet  and  dear  of  her. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      279 

Bess  did  not  go  upstairs  at  once.  She  looked  about  the 
kitchen  with  a  housewife's  intent  to  see  that  everything  was 
in  order  for  the  night,  and  the  perfection  of  it  brought  a 
sweetness  of  approval  to  her  face.  It  had  been  kind  of  him, 
she  knew,  to  do  so  much  for  Lyddy.  So  young  a  man,  so 
handsome,  —  for  Bess  knew  that  about  him,  —  so  well  fitted 
for  the  dashing  career  of  "  quality,"  must  be  good  indeed 
to  pay  such  tribute  to  an  old  woman's  stiffened  back.  She 
heard  Celia's  step,  the  rustle  of  her  dress,  and  waited.  Celia, 
too,  must  be  coming  for  water.  She  was  a  pretty  figure  out 
of  the  gloom  of  the  doorway  where  she  stood  a  moment 
like  a  picture,  her  soft  muslin,  with  its  lace,  wrapped  about 
her  in  something  near  enough  antique  folds  to  let  you  call 
her  nymph  or  dryad,  whatever  you  will  that  walks  in  beauty. 
The  sisters  smiled  at  each  other  with  that  lighting  of  the 
face  that  visited  each  at  sight  of  the  other,  with  no  alloy  of 
an  expected  social  kindness. 

"  Water  ? "  asked  Bess,  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  pump- 
handle. 

"Yes."  Celia  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  put  her  head 
back  wearily  on  the  door-casing.  "  Bess,  don't  you  think 
it 's  queer  we  should  have  to  pump  for  ourselves  ? " 

Bess  looked  at  her  with  widened  eyes. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"  Is  n't  it  queer  not  to  be  able  to  ring  a  bell,  and  say, 
c  Bring  me  a  glass  of  water  '  ?  We  have  to  pump." 

Bess  stood  there  drawing  the  pump-handle  slowly  down, 
that  she  might  not  lose  her  stroke,  bringing  only  a  drizzle 
while  she  thought. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.    "  Somebody  's  got  to  pump." 

Celia  looked  down  at  her  own  delicate  hands  lying  against 
the  lace  and  muslin  of  her  dress. 

"  I  wish  I  did  n't  hate  it  so,"  she  said. 


280      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  Hate  pumping?  I  '11  do  it  for  you."  She  began  to  do 
it  vigorously. 

Celia  rose  from  her  chair  and  laughed. 

"You're  such  a  ninny,  darling  child."  She  had  heard 
Winterbourne  call  Bess  a  ninny  the  other  day  when  she  had 
wanted  to  make  him  fresh  tea  because  he  was  late.  It  sounded 
kind.  All  Celia's  terms  were  borrowed.  She  had  different 
pigeon-holes  for  them,  and  used  them  freely.  "  Or  else  you  're 
cleverer  than  all  the  rest  of  us.  There,  that 's  cold  enough." 

"  I  '11  get  you  the  little  lustre  pitcher,"  said  Bess,  and 
went  back  to  the  dining-room.  She  felt,  not  only  from 
Celia's  charms  and  her  own  tenderness  for  her,  but  from 
these  discontents,  that  nothing  was  too  good  for  her.  She 
must  have  her  draught  from  the  little  precious  antique 
pitcher,  not  a  kitchen  clay. 

Celia  stood  there  very  pretty,  conscious  of  that,  though 
there  was  no  one  to  see  her,  wrapped  in  her  own  musings, 
and  there  came  a  knock,  a  soft  one,  at  the  door.  She  opened 
it  at  once,  and  a  woman,  a  little  creature,  wrapped  in  a  shawl, 
though  the  night  was  warm,  stepped  instantly  nearer  the  sill, 
and  lifted  up  an  eager  face. 

"  I  saw  you  through  the  window,"  she  said.  "  I  knew 
Lyddy  wa'n't  here.  I  knocked  at  t'  other  door  an*  nobody 
come.  Where's  Mr.  Winterbourne?" 

"  He  's  gone  to  walk,  I  think,"  said  Celia  kindly.  She 
was  always  gentle.  Her  best  manners  were  for  all  grades  of 
an  appreciative  world.  "  Can  I  give  him  a  message  ?  " 

"It's  this."  The  little  creature,  with  a  quick  proffer  of 
it  into  the  light,  indicated  a  small  newspaper  packet  under 
her  shawl.  "  It 's  his  ear-trumpet." 

"His  ear-trumpet?"  This  followed  so  closely  on  the 
heels  of  Tim's  disquisition  on  trumpets  that  Celia  opened 
her  eyes  at  her  and  said  at  once,  "Yes,  I  know." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      281 

"  I  Ve  brought  it  to  him/*  said  the  little  creature.  "  I 
got  a  ride  from  the  Falls,  an'  Cousin  Jerry  's  goin'  back 
to-night  with  the  steers,  an'  so  maybe  if  Mr.  Winterbourne 
ain't  in  I  can't  see  him  ;  but  I  want  to  give  him  back  his 
trumpet  an'  tell  him  I  dunno  how  mother  ever  'd  have  got 
along  without  it." 

"  I  '11  tell  him,"  said  Celia.  She  looked  so  radiant  under 
the  excitement  of  it  that  the  woman  forgot  how  tired  she 
was  from  the  jolting  of  Cousin  Jerry's  team,  and  thought 
she  was  the  prettiest  creatur'  that  anybody  ever  set  eyes  on. 
Celia  bent  forward  and  laid  her  delicate  hand  on  the  paper, • 
and  Ann  Staples  gave  it  up  to  her.  "  I  '11  tell  him,"  she 
said.  "  He  '11  be  so  pleased." 

Then  she  heard  Bess  coming  from  the  dining-room  and 
almost  pushed  the  little  figure  back  into  the  night's  obscu 
rity.  "  I  '11  tell  him,"  she  said  again  softly,  but  with  the 
brightest  smile.  "  Good-night."  She  had  shut  the  door, 
and  when  Bess  came  in,  Celia  was  standing  there  looking 
strangely  brilliant  with  a  package  in  her  hand,  the  hand 
hanging  by  her  side,  but  still  the  package  evident.  Celia 
was  listening.  But  she  heard  the  light  steps  really  hurry 
ing  down  the  walk,  and  the  quick  latch  of  the  gate.  Then 
she  did  turn  to  Bess,  and  laughed  softly,  not  so  much  as  if 
she  were  amused  as  excited,  pleased.  Bess,  like  the  other 
woman,  was  amazed  at  the  prettiness  of  her. 

"Who  was  it?"  she  asked. 

"Who  was  what?"  Celia  countered. 

"  At  the  door.  I  heard  somebody  going." 

"Oh,"  said  Celia,  and  really  laughed,  "the  milkman." 

"The  milkman?  Why,  'twas  a  woman.  I  heard  her  voice. 
Was  n't  she  talking  to  you  ?  " 

"  It  was  the  milkman's  wife,"  said  Celia.  "  Did  I  say  the 
milkman  ?  It  was  his  wife." 


282      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"What  did  she  want?" 

"  Let's  fill  the  pitcher.  Then  I'll  take  it  up." 

"  I  had  the  greatest  time  finding  it,"  Bess  absently  told 
her,  filling  it.  "  I  guess  Lyddy  thought  we  were  using  it  too 
common.  'Twas  hidden  round  the  corner  of  the  shelf. 
What's  that  bundle,  Celia?  Did  she  leave  it?" 

"It's  ajar,"  said  Celia.  "Give  me  the  pitcher.  I  won't 
wait.  Come  in  and  talk  a  minute  before  you  go  to  bed." 

"One  of  our  jars?  Well,  aren't  you  going  to  leave  it 
down  here  ?" 

"  I  '11  put  it  in  the  pantry  as  I  go  by." 

She  did  flit  into  the  pantry,  pitcher  in  one  hand  and  the 
parcel  in  the  other.  But  when  she  came  out  Bess,  pumping 
for  a  fresh  relay,  thought  she  was  carrying  the  parcel  still, 
in  the  hand  hanging  by  her  side.  Bess  laughed  a  little. 
Celia's  absent  ways  were  sweet  to  her.  Bess  thought  they 
were  probably  an  intrinsic  part  of  that  magic  state  of  mind 
and  manners  known  as  being  a  lady. 

Celia,  in  her  room,  closed  the  door  and  locked  it,  and  then 
lighted  two  candles  and  set  them  together  on  her  dressing- 
table.  She  never  would  use  lamps  in  her  own  room.  They 
were  hot,  she  said,  and  smelled.  She  was  used  to  undressing 
with  an  array  of  candles,  walking  back  and  forth  in  their 
dim,  gentle  beam,  thinking,  or  sometimes  sitting  before  her 
glass  illuminated  by  them,  the  light  falling  on  her  bare  arms. 
Now  she  plucked  off  the  newspaper,  with  a  distaste  for  it  as 
having  come  from  nobody  knew  where  in  a  moist,  uncleanly 
grasp, and  tossed  it  into  the  fireplace.  There  she  seta  match 
to  it,  and  while  it  burned  she  took  the  black,  worn  creature 
it  had  contained  and  eyed  it  curiously.  Here  again  was  pan 
pipes,  the  silent  thing,  ready  to  make  everybody's  fortune 
if  Winterbourne  would  let  it.  She  turned  it  over  at  this 
angle  and  another,  and  finally,  after  wiping  it  off  with  a 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      283 

towel  in  every  available  crevice,  she  laid  it  on  the  table  be 
tween  the  two  candles  and  sat  gazing  at  it,  with  the  cruel 
wonder  of  youth  that  has  suffered  no  lack  as  yet  through 
the  crippling  of  the  senses.  What  a  foolish  little  thing  it 
was,  she  thought,  to  have  such  incredible  importance.  It 
looked  perfectly  simple,  and  as  if  anybody  could  have  in 
vented  it  long  ago.  She  saw  no  special  and  unbounded 
importance  in  having  it  invented,  because  it  seemed  to  her 
that  if  you  got  to  the  point  where  a  sense  failed,  you  prob 
ably  were  too  old  to  care  about  using  it,  anyway.  The 
milk  of  kindness  was  not  soured  in  Celia,  but  no  harsh  birth- 
pains  had  yet  brought  forth  from  her  that  which  required 
nourishing.  She  was  a  little  animal,  with  her  own  hungers 
to  satisfy.  But  pan-pipes  answered  her  no  question.  There 
it  lay,  silent,  neither  unkind  nor  compliant ;  and  presently 
she  took  it  up,  still  with  that  distaste  for  something  that  had 
been  the  intimate  companion  of  an  old  woman  not  likely  to 
have  been  clean,  and  dropped  it  in  an  empty  drawer.  None 
of  the  drawers  locked,  and  she  threw  some  papers  over  it. 

While  she  moved  back  and  forth  making  ready  for  bed, 
she  forgot  to  think  of  the  candle-light  on  her  round  arms 
or  even  of  the  little  black  servitor  in  the  drawer,  and  how 
glad  Tim  Ramsay  would  be  to  get  his  hands  on  it.  It  had 
come  upon  her  in  a  great  wave  that  this  day  had  passed  and 
Lovell  had  not  found  her.  To-morrow  he  would,  undoubt 
edly,  but  to-night,  in  a  violence  of  maiden  aloofness,  she 
blew  out  her  candles  and  went  to  her  bed.  Before  she  fell 
asleep,  she  thought  incidentally  that  Bess  had  not  come  in, 
and  then  another  flick  from  the  drift  of  floating  memories 
reminded  her  that  she  had  told  Bess  a  lie,  an  absurd  one 
about  a  milkman.  Celia  smiled  off"  into  a  drowse.  She  for 
got  Lovell,  and  remembered  only  that  the  lie  was  about  a 
milkman,  and  absurd. 


XXII 

THE  next  time  Bess  slipped  out  of  the  house  and 
down  to  the  club-room  to  meet  her  boys,  she  found 
an  excited  set  of  them,  —  the  gang,  as  they  had  al 
ways  been,  and  now  her  most  unaffected  intimates.  They 
laid  hold  of  her,  the  youngest  among  them,  and  dragged 
her  in,  pouring  out  their  tale  in  concert  and  inviting  one 
another  to  shut  up.  Inside,  the  reason  was  evident.  One  end 
of  the  room  had  its  platform  and  desk  where  Mrs.  Ramsay 
used  to  sit  to  read  tales  of  statesmen,  and  behind  the  desk 
was  now  a  blackboard.  Who  had  put  it  there  ?  The  boys 
did  not  know.  They  accused  her  tumultuously,  thinking  that 
would  betray  its  purpose.  They  suggested  Mrs.  Ramsay, 
—  lying  speechless  in  her  bed,  poor  lady,  because  even  now 
she  could  not  find  the  right  word  and  would  not  willingly 
use  the  wrong  one,  —  and  looked  at  Bess  with  gimlet  eyes, 
imploring  her  not  to  tell  them  anything  so  terrible,  because 
that  would  mean  history  and  dates.  And  while  everybody 
talked  in  a  sweet  ingenuous  discord,  Dwight  Hunter  arrived, 
in  his  best  clothes,  the  boys  were  not  slow  in  seeing,  and 
with  his  fiddle-case.  He  made  his  coming  as  incidental  and 
reasonable  as  could  be,  and  Bess  saw  at  once  how  he  could 
not  have  done  otherwise  than  come,  because  he  knew  music 
and  it  was  his  logical  task  to  teach  it.  The  boys  scuffed  a 
little  with  their  feet  in  being  seated.  They  were  not  best 
pleased,  but  he  was  a  young  man  they  all  hoped  to  resemble 
in  a  few  years ;  and  besides  father,  in  each  case,  worked  for 
him.  And  Hunter,  like  a  diplomat,  having  thought  it  out 
beforehand,  at  once  began  to  teach  them  a  part-song  and 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      285 

never  curbed  their  vocal  turbulence  at  all,  as  Bess  was  used 
to  doing.  They  must  roar,  he  knew,  until  he  was  accepted. 
So  the  blackboard  was  not  touched  at  all,  save  at  the  end, 
when  the  others  were  filing  out,  and  the  little  smoker  whose 
head  had  been  scalded  slipped  up  and  wrote  on  it,  while 
Hunter  and  Bess  were  talking,  "  I  swore  off,"  and  Bess, 
seeing  him  erasing  it  in  an  access  of  shyness,  yet  understood, 
though  not  knowing  that,  according  to  the  older  delinquent's 
proposition,  he  and  Hunter  had  sworn  off  together. 

Presently  it  happened  that  she  and  Hunter  were  walking 
homeward,  and  she  was  gentle  to  him,  in  a  contrite  way, 
having  seen  how  little  she  had  known  the  good  that  was  in 
him  toward  Lyddy  and  his  fellow  boys.  The  last  farewell 
said  to  them  by  the  gang  was  from  the  most  adventurous 
boy  of  all,  who  slipped  up  to  them  on  their  way,  having 
followed  so  far  because  his  voice  and  resolution  failed  to  in 
quire  before. 

"Say/'  said  he,  "what 's  the  blackboard  for?" 

"  Write  music  on,"  said  Dwight,  adopting  a  like  form  of 
terseness  as  being  the  most  complete  medium  at  this  degree 
of  friendship. 

"  So  's  we  can  sing  it  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  Gee ! " 

Then  Dwight  and  Bess  walked  along  rather  silent,  he 
eager  not  to  lose  any  instant  of  putting  himself  forward  in 
her  acceptance,  yet  made  soft  and  still  by  the  atmosphere  of 
her  at  his  side.  She  seemed  to  him  something  very  strong 
and  sweet,  able  to  do  most  things,  but  strangely  needing 
protection  meanwhile,  to  be  obeyed  because  she  was  so  wise 
and  good,  and  to  be  planned  for  always.  Yet  this  being 
civilized  life,  and  conversation  the  code  of  it,  he  sought 
about  for  words  and  found  them  logically  in  Mrs.  Ramsay. 


286      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"She  doesn't  deserve  to  get  on  her  pins  again,"  he  an 
nounced,  when  Bess  had  represented  her  as  improving. 

"Why  not?"  said  Bess,  with  an  open-minded  candor. 

"  She  's  made  an  everlasting  fool  of  herself.  Don't  you 
think  she's  made  a  fool  of  herself?"  He  was  sure  of  his 
ground  here,  remembering  her  flattering  implication  that 
kitchen-work  was  beneath  a  man.  "  You  would  n't  want 
votes  for  women,"  he  said  admiringly. 

"  No,  I  don't  want  to  vote,  specially,"  said  Bess.  "  But  I 
might  have  to." 

"Why  should  you  have  to?" 

"  It  might  seem  best." 

"You  don't  believe  in  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Ramsay,  leav 
ing  her  children  to  riot  and  Winterbourne  playing  nurse  to 
'em.  What  atom  of  good  has  she  ever  done  ? " 

There  was  no  heat  in  this.  It  was  all  one  to  him  whether 
the  Ramsay  children  grew  up  to  be  Hottentots,  but  he 
wanted  to  understand  Bess  profoundly. 

"  No,  I  don't  believe  in  that,"  said  Bess.  She  seemed, 
as  she  often  did,  to  have  difficulty  in  expressing  her  strong 
conviction.  "  But  I  guess  she  could  n't  help  it  if  she  felt 
just  that  way.  Some  folks  have  to  act  as  they  have  to,  even 
if  it  never  does  any  good,  don't  they  ? " 

Dwight  was  silent  for  a  moment,  while  Mrs.  Ramsay, 
her  manuscripts,  her  handbag,  her  benevolent  service  to  a 
world  that  intermittently  smiled  at  her,  rearranged  them 
selves  in  his  mind.  He  began  to  see  in  her  the  first  dusty 
reformer,  disfigured  by  the  dirt  she  has  kicked  up  in  her 
own  path,  the  unconsidered  rubble  that  will  go  to  the  foun 
dation  of  goodly  temples.  He  was  under  the  dominion  of 
the  woman's  mind  in  that  clarity  of  sympathy  that  comes 
through  the  rapport  of  what  we  call  love.  He  guessed  out 
reasons  and  feelings  in  his  lady  before  she  voluntarily  dis- 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      287 

played  them,  and  every  one  of  them  redounded  to  her  own 
dominance  over  him.  Now  he  saw,  Bess  was  not  a  woman 
bent  on  lowly  service  because  it  called  her.  She  would  ad 
minister,  if  affairs  beckoned  her,  and  with  as  humble  a 
mind.  Mrs.  Ramsay  had  been  the  rebel  who  went  untidily 
about  upsetting  the  machinery  of  ordered  life  because  she 
must,  and  Bess  was  of  those  who  would  answer  the  call 
to  put  it  in  order.  But  he  did  not  reflect  that  Bess  was  of 
a  generation  later  than  Mrs.  Ramsay,  and  her  discontents, 
if  she  had  them,  would  be  of  another  complexion.  Perhaps 
she  had  none.  He  had  seen,  as  Winterbourne  had,  though 
not  with  as  clear  a  recognition  and  power  of  formulating, 
that,  however  Bess  might  strain  in  the  collar  of  hard  life, 
she  was  not  an  image  of  resignation  but  of  obedience. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said. 

They  were  at  the  gate,  and  he  had  not  talked  to  her,  he 
knew,  with  any  degree  of  cogency  that  would  urge  her  to 
think  of  him  after  he  had  gone.  She  was  opening  the  house- 
door  softly  because  it  was  simpler  for  no  one  to  know  she 
had  been  away,  and  he  went  on  with  his  fiddle-case.  He 
thought  of  what  a  man  had  said  to  him  once  of  the  girl  he 
had  meant  to  marry,  who  died  in  her  beautiful  youth : 
"  When  you  're  older,  you  take  fancies  to  women  ;  but  when 
you're  young,  you  know." 

He  knew.  All  he  wished,  in  this  beguilement  of  the 
summer  night,  was  that  they  two  were  in  a  simple,  savagely 
natural  life  together,  on  an  island  perhaps,  where  the  large 
calm  look  of  the  earth  and  heaven  would  fit  her,  and  where 
they  could  be  as  happy  as  the  child  she  was. 

He  was  not  surprised  to  meet  Winterbourne,  smoking, 
hands  behind  him  and  eyes  bent  on  the  ground.  This  was 
his  favorite  walk,  to  the  little  bridge  and  back  again.  After 
that  he  usually  went  on  to  the  Ramsays'  and  patrolled  the 


288      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

house  half  an  hour,  called  out  Harriet  to  ask  if  the  children 
were  safe  and  Ramsay  had  got  home.  Once  he  saw  Ram 
say's  silhouette  on  the  curtain,  in  the  children's  sleeping- 
room,  a  distraught  outline,  hat  atop,  as  if  Ramsay,  like  his 
wife,  could  never  pause  to  take  off  travelling  gear.  Winter- 
bourne  chuckled  at  that.  He  was  glad  Ramsay  had  been 
kicked  by  destiny  into  some  fellowship  with  his  own  chil 
dren.  What  business  had  a  man  to  beckon  souls  into  this 
precarious  world  if  he  did  n't  mean  to  be  their  guardian  after 
they  got  here  ?  Sometimes,  after  his  late  return  from  town, 
Ramsay  came  up  to  the  house  to  see  his  wife,  and  this  strange 
pair,  about  whom  nobody  in  the  world  knew  anything  ex 
cept  that  they  had  brought  into  the  world  beautiful  children, 
were  left  to  a  ten  minutes'  communion,  Mrs.  Ramsay  per 
haps  forgetting  her  words,  and  Ramsay  affected  by  it  in  a 
manner  no  one  could  estimate. 

To-night,  on  his  musing  course,  Winterbourne  stopped 
at  Dwight's  nearness,  and  gave  him  good-evening.  He  did 
not  notice  the  violin-case.  He  was  not  used  to  marking  the 
detail  of  life  unless  it  concerned  him  personally. 

"  Looks  like  dry  weather,"  he  said. 

<c  Yes."  Dwight  stood  a  moment,  staring  at  him  and 
thinking  of  Bess.  "Winterbourne,"  he  said  without  calcu 
lation,  because  it  burst  from  him,  "  she  believes  in  women's 
voting." 

"  Who  ? " 

"  Bess." 

Winterbourne  laughed  softly  under  his  breath. 

"  Bless  her  buttons,"  said  he.  "  Mrs.  Ramsay  been  at 
her?" 

"No.  It  doesn't  sound  like  conversion.  Sounds  as  if  she 
thought  it  was  common-sense.  That 's  how  everything 
sounds  as  soon  as  she  gets  hold  of  it." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       289 

"Well,"  said  Winterbourne,  "why  not?  For  heaven's 
sake,  why  not?  Why  shouldn't  Bess  Hartwell  be  setting 
the  town  in  order  and  not  my  infernal  house?  I  'd  have  her 
for  mayor  if  I  could.  She  'd  clean  us  up  mighty  quick.  She  'd 
mend  this  highway."  He  planted  a  great  foot  three  inches 
lower  in  a  hole  and  kicked.  "The  infernal  fools!  They 
plough  up  the  sides  of  the  road  into  the  middle,  and  we  live 
in  mud  from  March  to  November.  It  ought  to  be  an  abso 
lute  monarchy.  You  and  I  ought  to  be  put  to  breaking 
stones  to  make  good  roads,  or  building  pyramids  for  tombs 
of  poets  —  Jim  Lovell  'd  go  in  there  —  Jim  's  a  poet  —  " 

So  embarked,  Dwight  knew  he  would  go  on  world  with 
out  end,  lulled  by  the  sound  of  his  words,  largely  careless 
of  their  intent;  he  made  no  scruple  of  interrupting. 

"  But  look  at  Mrs.  Ramsay." 

"  Mrs.  Ramsay  's  a  criminal,"  said  Winterbourne,  start 
ing  on.  "  She  ought  to  be  walled  up  alive.  They  'd  have 
done  it  in  the  good  old  days." 

But  as  he  went  Winterbourne's  mind  abode  with  Mrs. 
Ramsay,  and  while  it  formulated  her,  he  muttered,  cursing 
her  with  his  fervid  tongue  because  she  was  derelict  to  duty 
and  yet  doing  her  ample  justice  within  that  tribunal  inside 
him.  Poor,  careworn,  worried  housewife  over  a  world  disor 
dered  !  This  was  what  he  saw  she  was,  single  of  aim,  sincere 
in  every  flurried  raid,  without  vanity,  in  evidence  every 
where  because,  like  the  older  enthusiast,  she  who  might  have 
spent  herself  in  religious  consecration,  she  must  bear  her 
testimony.  Not  an  abuse  of  them  all  but  she  had  fought  it; 
she  was  the  champion  of  peace,  of  suffrage,  of  forest  pre 
servation,  of  temperance  —  what  cause  lived  where  Anna 
Clayton  Ramsay's  name  was  unheard  ?  She  had  broken  her 
own  nerve  on  the  wheel  of  the  universe,  and  here  was  the 
small  planet  of  which  she  had  vowed  to  be  vicegerent,  to 


290      JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

keep  it  sweet  and  blooming,  rolling  through  space  with 
nothing  to  rule  over  it  but  the  far-away  greatest  God  of  all 
Who  lets  His  underlings  play  what  tricks  they  will  with  gov 
ernance  and  mete  out  to  themselves  their  own  desert. 

Winterbourne  got  quite  angry  over  it  all,  as  he  stumped 
along.  He  saw  Anna  Clayton  Ramsay  now  as  the  worship 
per  of  order  in  the  large,  not  in  the  little.  She  had  been 
willing  to  leave  her  own  house  windows  blurred  that  the 
world's  windows  might  be  clearer  toward  the  light.  Yet  her 
own  children  had  to  look  out  of  her  windows.  He  went 
home  in  a  temper.  Bess,  carrying  one  of  her  abounding 
trays,  with  its  two  glasses  of  yellow  drink,  met  him  in  the 
hall,  and  was  smiling  only  in  passing.  But  he  took  the  tray 
from  her  and  steadied  it  on  a  newel-post  while  he  hurled  at 
her,  — 

"I'm  as  much  of  a  criminal  as  Anna  Clayton  Ramsay." 

"Her  door's  open,"  Bess  indicated,  in  little  more  than 
dumb  show. 

"  I  don't  care.  She  's  a  criminal.  She  ought  to  be  on  bread 
and  water — ball  and  chain  —  iron  cage  like  the  old  French 
cardinal's,  forever  damned.  She  lets  her  house  go  to  thunder, 
and  I  let  you  try  to  keep  mine  from  going,  and  some  day 
you  '11  drop  in  your  tracks,  and  I  shall  fall  into  the  pit  with 
Anna  Clayton  Ramsay." 

"  She  's  sick,"  said  Bess.  She  was  smiling  at  him  in  an 
affection  that  seemed  to  say,  "  I  am  faithfulness,  too,  as  well 
as  love.  As  I  smile  now  I  shall  keep  on  smiling." 

"  Don't  care,"  said  Winterbourne.  "  Bess,  do  you  think 
there  's  anything  better  for  a  man  or  woman  to  do  than  just 
stick  to  their  job?" 

Bess  had  one  of  her  moments  of  incredible  density. 

"What  job?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  you  little  ninnyhammer!  the  job  he  finds  facing 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      291 

him  when  he  opens  his  eyes  on  this  infernal  world.  The 
job  he  makes  for  himself.  Anyway,  his  job.  Aren't  those 
four  yellow-topped  children  over  there  Anna  Clayton  Ram 
say's  job  ? " 

"There  are  five,"  said  Bess.    "  Don't  you  count  Tim?" 

Winterbourne  looked  at  her  and  grinned.  She  was  beyond 
words  provoking,  and  often  he  had  a  glimmering  sense  that 
her  response  to  the  obvious  might  be  only  the  veil  of  what 
she  really  thought. 

"  Bess,"  said  he,  "sometimes  I  think  you  're  not  half  such 
a  fool  as  you  look." 

She  broke  down  then  and  giggled,  and  sat  on  the  lower 
stair  and  laughed  noiselessly  until  she  cried  two  round  clear 
tears  that  rolled  down  her  pink  cheeks  like  little  worlds  in 
a  heavenly  sunrise,  and  Winterbourne  had  the  sudden  in 
spiration  that  Dwight  Hunter,  if  he  were  there,  might  think 
with  rapture  of  kissing  them  away. 

"Bess,"  said  he  rashly,  "do  you  like  Dwight  Hunter?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  recovered  seriousness. 

"Better  'n  I  did  at  first,"  she  answered  at  once.  "He's 
so  good  to  the  poor." 

"  Good  to  the  poor  ?    My  buttons  !    What 's  he  done  ?  " 

Bess  thought  she  knew,  but  she  fancied  she  was  in  the 
confidence  of  the  young  philanthropist. 

"  I  just  thought  so,"  she  said.  She  rose  and  took  on 
her  manner  of  quiet  practicality.  She  laid  her  hands  on  the 
tray. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Winterbourne.  "  I  '11  carry  it  up.  I  ought 
to  be  court-martialled  and  shot  for  not  toting  everything  for 
you,  you  little  nigger.  Bess,  I  never  saw  you  really  laugh, 
before." 

Her  lips  curved  again. 

"  I  guess  I  don't  laugh  very  often." 


292      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  Is  it  because  you  're  too  infernally  tired  all  the  time  ? 
I  bet  it  is.  This  thing  has  got  to  stop.  There  's  going  to 
be  a  wench  in  the  kitchen,  and  Anna  Clayton  Ramsay  's 
going  to  be  carted  off  to  a  sanatorium,  and  Lyddy  to  the 
work-'us,  and  I  'm  going  to  send  for  a  grand  piano  and  a 
pile  of  books,  and  you  're  going  to  be  crammed  with  cul 
ture  and  sent  abroad  to  marry  a  wicount.  Now  I  '11  carry 
up  the  tray." 

At  the  head  of  the  stairs  Bess  took  one  glass  from  it  and 
went  in  to  Mrs.  Ramsay. 

"You  carry  in  the  other,"  she  commanded. 

So  Winterbourne  unwillingly,  even  startled,  as  not  having 
foreseen  the  path  his  helpfulness  would  lead  him,  took  on 
himself  the  task  of  Ganymede  and  went  into  his  wife's  cham 
ber,  she  sitting  pretty  and  rosy  against  pillows,  not  in  the  least, 
he  grudgingly  thought,  Bess  and  her  cares  still  in  his  mind, 
like  any  invalid  he  ever  saw.  The  old  eager  look  leaped 
into  her  eyes  at  sight  of  him,  and  he,  giving  her  the  glass 
awkwardly,  met  it  with  a  kindly  one.  If  she  was  not  sick 
—  and  sometimes  on  his  evening  walks  he  doubted  whether 
she  was  not  able  to  be  very  much  on  deck  —  she  must  be 
encouraged  to  a  better  state  of  things.  She  had  something 
to  say  to  him,  and  pointed  out  the  chair  at  her  side. 

"John,  I  think  Bess  believes  in  the  immanence  of  God." 

"  Of  course  she  does.    She 's  too  healthy  not  to." 

"  Do  you  mean  her  physical  health  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do.  Partly.  Her  blood  flows  true.  When 
she  stands  upright,  there  's  a  line  from  the  throne  of  God 
going  straight  through  her  and  pinning  her  to  the  earth. 
And  the  currents  go  both  ways,  up  from  the  earth  and  down 
from  God." 

Catherine  did  not  know  what  he  meant,  though  it  sounded 
mystical  and  she  strained  her  tired  mind  to  see  if  she  could 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      293 

get  out  of  it  something  valuable  to  be  salted  down.  She  had 
a  great  idea  of  using  things  afterwards,  not  perhaps  for  com 
petitive  display,  but  in  some  fashion  to  add  to  the  richness 
of  life.  Winterbourne  also  didn't  quite  know  what  he  meant, 
only  that  it  was  exactly  as  Bess  seemed  to  him. 

"What  makes  you  say  it's  because  she's  healthy?'* 
Catherine  groped  again.  "  If  that  was  so,  the  people  with 
the  strongest  bodies  would  be  the  most  spiritual.  And 
they  're  not." 

"  Anything  that 's  unspoiled  believes  in  God,"  said  Win 
terbourne  dogmatically.  "Anyway  he  believes  in  Him 
enough  to  be  afraid  of  Him  or  fight  Him.  Bess  is  such  a 
perfect  darling  she  believes  in  Him  and  loves  Him." 

Catherine  did  not  think  he  ought  to  call  even  so  filial 
a  creature  "darling";  but  she  let  it  pass,  finding  in  herself 
scant  strength  for  any  controversy. 

"  Afraid  of  Him  ! "  she  said.  "  I  can  understand  that. 
*  Caliban  upon  Setebos.' ' 

Winterbourne  had  not  read  very  far  in  the  poet  Brown 
ing.  He  said,  after  one  trial,  he  had  no  music  and  was  a 
slovenly  workman  besides.  It  wasn't  because  he  was  cryp 
tic  that  people  had  to  cut  paths  through  his  labyrinths ;  it 
was  because  he  had  been  too  cocky  to  take  pains.  So  he 
shared  the  impression  common  among  others  in  a  more 
humble  intellectual  walk,  that  Setebos  was  an  island. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  that,"  he  said.  "  I  only 
know  if  there 's  a  thunder-shower,  I  'm  afraid  and  put  my 
head  under  the  bedclothes.  When  the  sun  comes  out  I 
strut.  That 's  because  I  've  heard  Zeus  speaking.  Bess 
would  n't  do  that.  When  the  lightning  wakes  her,  she  prob 
ably  pops  her  head  up  and  says,  ( Want  something,  Father 
Zeus  ?  What  d'  ye  lack  ?  Hebe  asleep  ?  Ganymede  gone 
on  a  tout  ?  Want  me  to  carry  a  tray  to  somebody  ? '  " 


294      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"John,"  said  Catherine,  almost  in  a  portentous  tone,  "did 
you  know  that  Anna  Clayton  Ramsay  believes  we  are  God  ?  " 

"Does  she?"  Winterbourne  responded  grimly.  "Well, 
I  never  've  seen  anything  in  Anna  Clayton  Ramsay  person 
ally  to  support  her  claim." 

"  I  have  always  been  an  agnostic,"  Catherine  went  on  ; 
but  Winterbourne  forgot  she  was  sick  and  to  be  considered, 
and  emitted  the  sound  that  served  him  for  a  groan. 

"An  agnostic,  Cat!  You're  not  an  agnostic.  Nobody  is 
but  a  few  old  dickeys  that  have  read  books  till  their  heads 
are  addled.  You  've  just  got  hold  of  a  lot  of  terms,  and 
they  've  choked  you  up  so  you  can't  breathe.  You  're  like  a 
mouse  in  a  rag-bag.  The  bag  shakes  so  you  can't  even 
make  a  nest  there." 

"But  you're  not  a  churchman  yourself,  John,"  she  re 
minded  him. 

"A  churchman  !"  said  Winterbourne,  with  scorn,  getting 
out  of  his  chair.  "  I  believe  in  Jupiter,  and  so  does  Bess.  I 
swear  by  Jupiter  and  I  swear  by  Bess.  So  does  Jupiter,  I  bet 
you.  We  're  a  close  corporation." 

Catherine  was  looking  at  him  and  frowning,  forgetting  to 
drink  her  egg-nog.  The  glass  shook  a  little  in  her  grasp,  and 
Winterbourne  steadied  it  for  her. 

"  There,  there,"  he  said  with  a  gruff  kindliness,  "  drink 
your  milk." 

But  he  wondered  at  the  same  time  how  a  delicate  creature 
like  this  could  be  fed  all  day  long  and  continue  to  absorb 
it.  Catherine  had  not  finished  her  queries. 

"She  says  I  must  pray,  too."  The  phrase  held  wonder. 

"Bess?" 

"But  she  doesn't  know  any  prayers  except  cNow  I  lay 
me.'  I  had  her  get  the  prayer-book  and  read  me  some.  She 
quite  waked  up,  John.  She  said  they  were  beautiful.  But  I 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      295 

persuaded  her  to  go  to  church,  a  week  ago  Sunday,  and  last 
Sunday  she  wouldn't  go.  She  said  it  made  her  sleepy." 

"  Good  for  Bess  !  Don't  you  interfere  between  her  and 
Jove,  Catherine." 

"  It  is  n't  Jove."  Her  eyes  grew  larger.  It  looked  even 
as  if  she  had  been  frightened  by  something  sacrilegious  per 
haps,  and  Winterbourne,  noting  that,  thought  it  seemed  like 
terror  at  seeing  sacred  unapproachable  things  brought  to  the 
aid  of  the  market-place.  "  She  said  I  must  pray  for  strength 
to  do  what  I  ought  to  do.  But  when  I  asked  her  what  I 
ought  to  do,  she  said  she  did  n't  know.  What  do  you  sup 
pose  she  thinks  I  ought  to  do?" 

Winterbourne  did  n't  know  either ;  but  the  imp  inside  him 
that  commented  on  current  events  suggested  it  might  be  that 
she  should  cease  drinking  egg-nogs  and  get  up  and  behave 
prettily. 

"I  asked  her  if  she  prayed  night  and  morning,  and  she 
said  no,  she  was  too  busy.  Don't  you  think  that's  the 
queerest  thing  ?  " 

"  No.  I  think  it 's  the  most  outrageous  thing  I  ever  heard." 

"Oh,  she  didn't  intend  to  be  outrageous."  But  though 
he  had  not  meant  that,  he  would  not  tell  her  what  did  seem 
to  him  as  outrageous,  that  the  child  should  not  have  time 
for  her  baby-prayers.  "  But  when  I  asked  her  when  she  did 
pray,  she  said,  £  'Most  all  the  time.'  Does  she  seem  to  you 
like  a  religious  girl,  John  ?  " 

"  She  seems  to  me  like  a  martyr  in  this  abominable  house," 
Winterbourne  muttered  within  his  beard. 

"What?  But  this  is  queer,  too.  I  asked  her  if  she  knelt 
to  pray,  and  she  said  no.  She  said  if  she  did  that  folks  might 
see  her  and  it  would  take  her  mind  off.  Now  if  she  's  as 
devout  as  she  seems,  shouldn't  you  think  she'd  be  glad  to 
be  in  difficult  circumstances?" 


296      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  No,  by  thunder!"  said  Winterbourne,  "  I  shouldn't. 
She  's  a  perfectly  normal  creature,  and  she  knows  the  Al 
mighty  understands  her  like  a  book.  She  knows  she  needs 
every  grain  of  powder  she  's  got  for  warfare.  She  is  n't  going 
to  spend  any  popping  off  at  marks." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  conservation  of  energy  ?  " 
He  hated  his  colloquialisms  when  they  were  so  belabored. 
"Good-night,  Catherine,"  he  said.  "You'll  be  tired." 
"You  were  dear  to    come,"    she    told    him.    Her  face 
smoothed  out,  and  the  brightness  ran  back  into  it.   He  had 
the  shamed  pleasure  of  escape,  flavored  with  the  certainty 
that  she  would  want  him  to  come  again. 


XXIII 

WINTERBOURNE  went  down  into  his  particu 
lar  sitting-room,  where  the  windows  were  wide 
open  and  the  night  breeze  came  in,  thinking  at 
first  that  he  would  light  his  lamp  and  read  away  the  hours 
that  always  seemed  to  be  at  his  command  for  this  loved 
pleasure.  Sleep  was  not  so  necessary  to  him  as  it  used  to 
be,  and  he  often  found  himself  wishing  it  was  not  desirable 
at  all.  Though  he  thought  he  had  a  healthy  acquiescence 
in  the  course  of  things,  the  wane'of  physical  life,  the  going 
hence  into  a  decreed  obscurity  when  the  body  is  no  more, 
he  kept  a  steady  serious  love  for  the  earth  and  her  beau 
ties,  and  no  hours  of  day  and  night  together  were  enough 
to  exhaust  his  tried  passion  for  her.  But  to-night  even 
Theocritus  seemed  a  task.  He  was  a  little  tired,  more  with  a 
weariness  of  the  mind  from  his  few  minutes  with  Catherine 
than  from  the  day  itself.  All  his  occupations  now,  he  would 
frankly  have  owned,  were  play.  It  was  play  to  help  Dwight 
Hunter  run  up  and  down  the  rows  of  carrots  with  a  wheel- 
hoe,  fun  to  think  their  feathery  green  was  his  because  he 
had  evoked  it  from  the  earth,  fun  to  go  clamming  and  come 
home  so  full  of  salt  air  that  his  body  was  one  great  appe 
tite,  and  then  to  stretch  his  legs  and  smoke.  But  when 
inconvenient  questions  began  to  play  upon  his  brain,  then 
he  was  tired. 

His  problem  now  was  to  save  Bess  from  her  task  of 
nurse  and  kitchen-maid ;  but  she  would  not  be  saved.  She 
knew  more  than  any  of  them  about  the  scared  mind  of 
Lyddy,  fearing  more  invasion,  trembling  over  her  kitchen 


298       JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

rights,  wondering,  in  spite  of  her  trust  in  Winterbourne, 
whether  she  might  not  be  crowded  out  altogether  and  per 
haps  end  her  days  with  the  relations  with  whom  she  had 
had  perpetual  warfare.  To  Winterbourne,  Lyddy  was  a 
dear  old  creature  intimately  connected  with  his  own  life ; 
but  even  he  did  not  see  through  the  crust  of  her  cantanker- 
ousness  that  she  was  a  pathetic  old  woman  with  a  trembling 
heart.  For  her  sake  Bess  would  have  no  other  kitchen 
help.  Therefore,  the  only  other  factor  in  the  problem  was 
Mrs.  Ramsay,  and  she  must  go.  Sick  or  well  she  must  go 
home  to  her  own  job.  The  phrase  pleased  him,  and  he  bit 
his  teeth  on  the  stem  of  his  cold  pipe  and  repeated  it  grimly. 
Her  husband  and  her  children  were  the  job  she  had  under 
taken. 

Then  suddenly,  under  his  breath,  Winterbourne  began 
to  laugh.  He  continued,  though  still  softly,  because  no  un 
restrained  mirth  was  so  necessary  to  him  as  to  bethink  him 
self  not  to  call  down  something  feminine  from  above  to 
inquire  what  the  matter  was.  Even  Bess  would  have  broken 
his  self-communing  into  pieces.  The  cap  he  had  meant  for 
Mrs.  Ramsay  had  been  suddenly  caught  by  some  breeze  of 
fancy,  whirled  about  and  settled  on  his  own  head,  and, 
to  his  pathetic  terror,  it  fitted.  What  if  this  house,  what 
if  the  wife  he  had  married  and  the  attendant  train  of  cir 
cumstance,  were  his  job,  as  Mrs.  Ramsay's  gold-topped 
children  were  hers  ?  He  had  for  the  last  few  years  avoided 
fruitless  speculation  over  the  earlier  part  of  his  life.  Hav 
ing  settled  that  he  and  Catherine  were  to,  live  apart,  he 
chose  not  to  dwell  upon  it  any  more.  It  had  seemed  to 
him  that  he  had  turned  out  of  a  way  that  led  nowhere — a 
path  where  you  were  expected  to  keep  flowers  always  blos 
soming,  but  where  there  were  fragrances  too  heavy  for  the 
normal  nerves,  into  a  broad  highway,  and  here  the  world  was 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      299 

walking  up  and  down  on  its  sane,  commonplace  errands, 
and  it  was  a  man's  chief  pleasure  to  look  on.  But  could  it 
be  that,  having  entered  the  choking  path  and  begun  to  water 
the  flowers  there,  he  had  got  to  continue  cherishing  them  ? 
Possibly  nobody  earned  exemption  by  merely  wanting  it, 
and  was  it  his  task  to  recognize  that  he  still  had  a  house,  in 
the  warmest  meaning  of  the  word,  and  that  it  was  his  task 
to  set  it  in  order  and  keep  it  so  ? 

He  resolutely  turned  back  to  the  beginning  of  it  all, 
when  Catherine  had  left  him  to  go  abroad,  and  they  had 
both  realized  that  it  was  for  their  lifetime.  This  was  his 
deed.  He  had  not  said  it  should  be  so,  but  he  had  made  it 
so  by  dividing  the  property  and  showing  her  that  his  was 
to  be  henceforth  a  different  order  of  life,  one  that  she  not 
only  was  unfitted  to  enter,  but  that  she  would  not  wish 
to  share.  He  made  himself  recall  pictures  he  had  then 
resolutely  put  by  as  part  of  the  hurt  of  life  that  need  not 
be  perpetuated.  Why  should  a  man  in  the  light  of  modern 
day  scarify  himself  with  knives  of  penitence?  He  saw  her 
wan  face  when  they  parted,  the  pathetic  eyes  that  seemed 
always  to  be  beseeching  him  to  make  her  happiness.  It 
was  n't  he,  he  often  wanted  to  tell  her,  out  of  his  first  sav 
age  impatience  at  it  all,  it  was  n't  he  that  had  the  power  of 
life  and  death  over  her  happiness.  It  was  life  itself.  This 
present  world,  if  you  let  yourself  be  imprisoned  by  the  pas 
sions  and  desires  of  it,  is  a  bad  box  to  be  in.  That,  she 
never  had  the  wit  to  recognize.  She  looked  to  him  as  the 
inferior  god  who  could  weave  certainties,  just  as  Lyddy 
turned  to  him  to  make  her  safety.  And  he  saw  now  that  if 
it  was  his  job,  he  had  got,  if  not  to  cause  her  happiness,  to 
help  her  to  endurance. 

Winterbourne,  in  his  way  of  long  reflection,  was  always 
recognizing  the  pathos  of  woman-things  who  are  so  in  love 


3oo      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

with  happiness.  Yet  perhaps  it  was  being  in  love  with 
beauty  really,  because,  satisfy  the  ideal  in  them,  and  they 
will  starve,  walk  over  hot  iron,  accept  martyrdom  gladly. 
It  made  him  angry  with  them,  furious,  that  they  should 
keep  on  carrying  this  banner  of  the  ideal  into  the  market 
place,  and  expecting  men  to  rally  round  it.  It  made  so 
much  trouble,  not  for  him  only  and  his  busy  mates,  but  for 
the  women,  too.  Why  was  it  that  they  had  to  worship  this 
absurd  romance,  the  glamour  that  exists  only  to  veil  the 
hard  condition  underneath  ?  Nobody  could  meet  their  im 
possible  ideals,  nobody  but  the  poets  on  the  printed  page; 
the  poets  themselves  were  no  such  admirable  figures,  unless, 
indeed,  they  were  dead. 

His  mind  went  wandering  off  into  the  past  where  there 
were  knights  and  that  kingdom  in  the  air  called  chivalry. 
It  was  enchanting  to  him,  too,  the  aerial  framework  of  it, 
when  he  saw  it  in  the  sky.  But  how  men  who  were  making 
trusts  and  fighting  trusts,  rolling  over  and  over,  their  teeth 
at  each  other's  throats  in  the  dust  of  the  highway,  could  be 
expected  to  see  gleaming  cities  above  them,  armies  fight 
ing  in  the  clouds,  he  could  not  guess.  Yet  the  unalterable 
conviction  never  left  him  that  Catherine  looked  to  him  for 
her  happiness  and  to  no  one  else.  And  he  had,  in  the  years 
so  far  behind  them  that  they  two  were  no  longer  the  two 
they  were  then,  given  her  the  biggest  of  promissory  notes. 
But  nature,  as  colossal  in  her  brute  way  as  the  soul  of  man, 
had  risen  up  and  denied  her  joy.  He  could  not  create  it  for 
her,  because  they  were  different  people  now.  How  could  he 
make  her  serene  when  she  made  him  uneasy  ?  With  Bess  he 
was  as  much  at  ease  as  if  she  were  a  pretty  child  playing  in  the 
yard  while  he  pursued  his  chosen  homely  tasks.  If  he  called 
her  to  look  at  a  butterfly,  she  would  come,  say  c  Pretty/  and 
return  to  her  own  as  simple  deeds.  But  Catherine,  if  he 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      301 

summoned  her  to  see  the  butterfly,  would  flush  and  glow 
and  ask  him  if  he  meant  the  soul.  They  were  not  mates  of 
kindred  tastes,  going  hand  in  hand  together  through  a  world 
they  saw  with  the  same  eyes.  What  should  be  done  about 
it  now?  Should  he  try  to  make  her  see  with  his  eyes?  The 
petty  tyranny  of  it !  Her  way  was  as  good  as  his,  if  he  could 
stomach  it.  Should  he  try  to  see  with  hers  ?  Impossible.  It 
would  wear  out  his  endurance  in  a  week,  so  that  he  would 
have  made  himself  more  cruel  to  her  than  before.  Yet,  he 
saw  more  plainly,  the  more  he  forced  himself  to  look  the 
state  of  things  in  the  face,  that  it  could  not  be  shifted.  It 
was  his  job. 


XXIV 

EVERY  morning  Winterbourne  went  over  to  the  Ram- 
says'  and  started  the  children  on  their  day.  At  first, 
finding  Tonty  doing  it,  he  washed  the  faces  of  Teeny 
and  Tiny,  but  this  he  gave  over  because  Tim,  seeing  him 
at  it,  had  laughed.  Winterbourne  set  a  big  bowl  on  the  play 
room  hearth  as  a  spot  that  might  be  slopped  with  impunity, 
and  Tim  stood  in  the  doorway  several  minutes,  creased  with 
mirth,  to  note  the  stoical  forbearance  on  the  nurse's  face, 
the  look,  suited  to  the  children's  expectations,  as  if  he  liked 
it.  Yet  Winterbourne  did  it  badly,  deft  as  he  was,  because 
Teeny  and  Tiny,  from  his  participance  in  it,  would  regard 
it  as  a  game.  Winterbourne  looked  up  and  saw  him,  and  at 
Tim's  morning  face  of  smiles,  he  frowned. 

"Come  here,  young  man,"  he  said.  "Take  a  hand  your 
self." 

But  Tim  refused  and  gave  the  variety  of  laugh  known  as 
a  snicker. 

"You  go  ahead,  Jackie,"  he  recommended.  "You're 
doing  it  elegant.  Nobody  can  do  it  as  elegant  as  you." 

Winterbourne  dried  a  shining  pink  cheek  tenderly  with  a 
towel  too  smooth  to  take  the  water,  and  albeit  full  of  holes. 
It  was  all  he  and  Tonty  had  been  able  to  find. 

"  They  're  your  own  blood  and  bone,  young  man,"  he 
said.  "You  'd  better  take  a  hand  at  them  now  and  then." 

But  Tim  shook  his  head. sunnily  and  went  away  whistling. 
The  wise  Tonty  heard  this,  and  it  gave  her  a  serious  look 
for  a  long  time  after  the  children  were  clean  and  until  the 
day's  carnival  had  made  them  dirty  again.  This  was  the  first 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      303 

time  she  had  suspected  that  Jackie's  deeds,  done  for  them, 
were  not  a  part  of  his  pleasure.  Now  it  seemed  that  they 
were  tasks,  undertaken  from  benevolence,  though  she  did 
not  know  so  long  a  word,  and  the  knowledge  graved 
another  line  in  her  understanding  of  life,  a  line  that 
should  some  time  set  its  visible  counterpart  upon  her  fore 
head  also.  From  that  morning  she  herself  washed  the  two 
smallest  faces,  and  bribed  Tony,  by  means  that  led  to  her 
own  penury  in  toys  and  dearest  possessions,  to  wash  his. 
Sometimes  the  bribes  were  big  enough,  sometimes  they 
failed,  and  then  Tony  went  smooched  like  a  coal-man.  But 
the  two  little  ones  she  could  manage  by  the  sleight  of  her 
vigorous  young  arm,  and  they  were  made  to  rise  the  earlier 
that  she  and  they  might  have  their  daily  battle  over  the 
tub. 

Tonty  was  very  much  hated  about  this  time.  Often  her 
lavatory  offences  were  not  forgotten  all  day  long,  and  she  was 
an  outcast  from  her  clan.  On  Saturday  only  there  was  a  riot 
known  as  full  bath.  Of  this  little  Harriet  had  official  charge, 
but  so  ill  did  she  accomplish  her  mission  that  Mr.  Ramsay 
himself,  the  unknown  as  much  almost  to  his  children  as  to 
the  town,  plunged  into  the  breach  and  either  scrubbed  his 
offspring  or  in  some  dark  fashion  ensured  their  cleansing. 

Winterbourne  felt  at  one  time  a  grudging  appreciation  of 
Mrs.  Ramsay.  Here  she  had  been  known  as  an  absentee 
mother,  and  yet,  behold,  the  children  were  manifestly  in 
greater  disorder  than  before  her  exile.  This,  in  a  modified 
form,  he  said  one  day  to  Tim. 

"The  children  evidently  miss  their  mother  very  much," 
he  conceded. 

Tim  replied  with  an  airy  cynicism, — 

"  They  miss  Mary  Flaherty,  that 's  who  they  miss.  If 
Mary 'd  come  back,  we'd  all  be  as  smooth  as  silk." 


304      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

As  smooth  as  silk  they  had  never  been  since  Tim's  birth, 
yet  everything  being  relative,  it  might  seem  so  now. 

But  a  solemn  morning  had  come  when,  summoned  by 
Bess,  the  children  were  to  see  their  mother,  and  the  three  of 
them,  marshalled  by  Tonty,  set  forth  on  the  road,  with  hair 
just  escaping  from  its  douche  and  brushing  into  the  curl 
nature  had  long  ago  decided  upon,  and  cheeks  shining  pink. 
Tonty  had  thought  the  proprieties  demanded  that  Tim  also 
should  go,  but  he  had  drawn  the  sheet  up  to  his  chin  and 
bidden  her  forge  ahead  and  let  a  man  sleep.  Tonty  reasoned 
that  he  also  was  a  child,  though  so  long  a  one,  and  it  seemed 
an  ill  return  for  the  clemency  of  Bess  in  bidding  them  to  this 
great  ceremonial  not  to  respond  fully.  They  all  had  an  im 
perfect  idea  of  what  they  were  to  see.  Once  they  had  pottered 
off  alone  to  a  woman's  club  in  town  where  mother  was  to 
speak,  and  had  never  reached  it  at  all,  through  an  incomplete 
understanding  of  the  way ;  but  they  had  brought  up  at  a 
cider  mill,  and  been  taken  home  by  a  farmer  in  the  edge  of 
the  evening,  soaked  through  and  through  with  the  juice  of 
apples,  and  heavy-headed  with  sleep.  But  this  was  a  festival 
decreed  and  they  went  toward  it  gravely.  They  were  four 
beautiful  children,  the  sun  lighting  their  golden  tops,  and 
whatever  raiment  they  had  on  hidden  by  four  of  the  dirtiest 
tiers  mortal  child  was  ever  clothed  withal.  Bess  saw  them 
coming  their  eager  straggling  way,  and  went  down  the  path 
to  meet  them.  She  appraised  the  tiers,  and  regretted  them, 
but  said  nothing,  knowing  from  the  care  on  Tonty's  brow 
that  the  best  possible  had  been  done,  and  to  criticise  would 
be  to  add  a  darker  veil  to  that  sweet,  serious  face. 

Bess  had  a  little  table  set  out  in  the  arbor.  There  were 
heart-shaped  cookies  for  it,  by  and  by,  and  goblets  of  morn 
ing's  milk.  She  took  a  hand  of  Tony,  for  he  was  frowning 
by  this  time  in  suspicion  of  the  quest,  and  went  in  with  a  gay 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       305 

alacrity,  as  if  it  were  a  very  nice  errand  they  had  come  on. 
Tony  squirmed  a  little  to  get  his  fingers  away  from  her  strong 
ones,  and  his  face  twisted  slightly.  He  wanted  to  roar  out 
with  the  candor  of  the  natural  man  and  demand  what  he  was 
here  for  anyway,  on  strange  stairs.  But  even  as  he  longed, 
his  small  legs  were  lifting  over  the  treads,  and  he  reflected 
that  after  all  he  was  a  man  ;  and  then  he  was  in  a  pretty  room 
and  a  lady  lay  there  in  bed,  with  a  ruffle  round  her  neck,  and 
he  was  led  up  to  her,  the  others  following,  and  told,  "  Here  's 
mother."  Bess  released  him  then  and  gave  the  others  a  kindly 
little  poke  to  get  them  into  line,  and  turned  about  and  left 
them.  She  had  things  to  do  in  the  adjacent  room,  and  her 
good  sense  told  her  to  let  Mrs.  Ramsay  see  her  children  un 
hindered.  But  really  nobody  but  Tonty,  who  pondered  many 
things  in  her  heart,  and  had  kept  a  clear  memory  that  Jackie 
had  told  her  mother  was  sick  and  gone  away  to  get  well, 
knew  it  was  mother  at  all.  It  was  a  nice  pink  lady  with  smooth 
brown  hair,  the  braids  of  it  coming  out  on  each  shoulder  of 
her  nightie,  and  she  was  looking  at  them  steadily.  There 
was  a  good  deal  of  the  baby  in  Tony,  when  he  was  not  on 
his  native  ground.  He  got  uneasy  under  the  look,  and  thought 
he  would  turn  away  in  a  minute  and  begin  to  whistle;  but 
somehow  he  stayed  staring  back  at  her,  and  really  in  his  con 
fusion  and  the  strain  of  it  all,  he  wanted  to  cry.  But  the  lady 
looked  at  Tonty  now  more  directly  than  at  the  rest  and  said 
plainly,  — 

"  How  dirty  their  shoe-strings  are  ! " 

She  had  meant  to  say  tiers,  and  the  innocent  word  had 
flown  away  and  incontinently  escaped  her.  All  the  corners 
of  her  mind  that  had  to  do  with  speech  were  disordered  still. 
She  would  have  a  great  deal  of  repacking  and  labelling  to  do 
there  before  she  could  put  her  hand  on  things  in  the  dark. 
Tonty  frowned  anxiously,  and  bent  to  look  at  their  pathetic 


3o6      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

feet.  She  had  insisted  on  shoes  to-day  because  it  was  a  Sun 
day  occasion,  and  the  mismated  yawning  gear  she  found  had 
not  justified  the  valor  of  the  search.  Yet  the  strings,  soggy 
with  dust  and  wear,  had  not  seemed  to  her  inferior  enough 
to  merit  scrutiny. 

"  Come  here,"  said  Mrs.  Ramsay.  More  pink  had  run 
into  her  face  and  her  eyes  glistened.  Something  in  the  spec 
tacle  of  four  clean  faces  in  the  morning  sun,  four  gleaming 
heads,  seemed  to  her  noteworthy.  "  Kiss  mother,"  she  in 
vited  them. 

Tonty  gravely  did  it,  and  with  her  duteous  right  arm 
brought  Teeny  and  Tiny  to  the  scratch.  They  would  have 
kissed  anybody  that  looked  as  pleasant  as  the  lady  in  bed, 
if  they  happened  to  feel  like  kissing.  Being  normal  little 
animals,  they  sometimes  felt  so  madly  like  it  that  they  could 
have  kissed  the  turkey-gobbler  if  he  would  have  put  his 
feathers  flat  long  enough  for  them  to  stop  being  afraid  of 
him.  And  again  Helen  herself  might  have  wooed  and  seen 
them  taking  to  their  bosoms  some  damaged  doll  of  sawdust 
lineage.  But  Tony  was  in  no  such  vein.  He  stepped  back  a 
pace,  and  his  freckles  stood  out  roundly  over  the  pallor  under 
them. 

"  You  ain't  mother,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "  I  won't." 

"  Of  course  I  'm  mother,"  said  Mrs.  Ramsay  remind- 
ingly,  almost  meltingly,  for  he  looked  to  her  a  very  nice 
little  boy.  Besides,  she  was  hurt.  "  Why  do  you  think  I  'm 
not  mother?" 

Challenged  thus  to  the  point  of  pure  reason,  Tony  was 
ready,  with  indisputable  proof. 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  "wears  a  bonnet  —  and  gloves." 

Mrs.  Ramsay  seemed  to  collapse  visibly  in  the  bed,  and 
stared  at  her  little  boy,  not  to  put  him  out  of  countenance, 
but  with  a  sincere  desire  to  comprehend  him.  She  had  begun 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      307 

to  wonder  about  her  children,  how  they  were  doing  without 
the  wise  brooding  she  made  no  doubt  she  gave  them.  Hav 
ing  summoned  them,  she  had  seen  them,  in  candid  anticipa 
tion,  flocking  to  her  breast.  But  here  was  a  set-faced  little 
boy,  hands  clenched  across  his  rotundity  under  the  dirty 
tier,  and  he  abjured  her.  Mrs.  Ramsay  had  never  felt  so 
small,  not  when  a  statesman,  in  open  meeting,  challenged 
her  statistics. 

Tonty  was  mortified.  She  felt  partly  the  hostess  of  the 
meeting  and  partly  the  mother  of  the  three  piebald  waifs, 
half-clean  half-dirty,  like  illustrations  of  the  origin  of  evil. 
It  was  her  part  to  offer  some  gracious  consolation  to  the 
repulsed  lady,  the  while  her  good  little  right  hand  itched  to 
lay  upon  Tony  the  smacking  he  deserved. 

"  Shall  you  come  home  soon,  mother?  "  she  inquired,  with 
a  sweet  precision,  and  Mrs.  Ramsay  replied  that  she  should 
come  as  soon  as  she  stopped  remembering  her  cerebellum. 
And  here  Bess,  judging  the  interval  by  the  amount  of  work 
she  had  done  in  absence,  considered  it  time  to  remove  the 
guests,  and  swept  them  all  downstairs  before  her,  almost 
tumbling  over  one  another  now  in  their  eagerness  to  escape, 
and  out  to  their  arboreal  banquet,  where  even  Tonty,  released 
from  the  spell  of  the  attractive  but  exacting  lady  called 
mother,  chorussed  with  the  rest. 

While  they  ate  and  choked  ecstatically,  Winterbourne  on 
his  own  mission,  self-appointed,  the  child  of  last  night's  rev 
erie,  appeared  at  his  wife's  bedside.  She  was  quite  placid. 
The  time  for  her  mid-forenoon  drive  was  not  yet ;  she  had 
had  breakfast,  and  to  lie  unnoted,  by  the  world  forgot,  was  as 
near  release  from  her  haunting  nervous  miseries  as  she  could 
now  attain.  But  here  was  her  husband,  something  that 
looked  like  eagerness  shining  in  his  eyes;  really  it  was  only 
the  determination  to  be  a  good  boy. 


3o8      JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  I  want  you  to  dress,  Catherine,"  said  he,  "  and  come  out 
for  a  walk.'' 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  a  terrified  amaze.  The  time  was 
not  many  weeks  ago  when  she  would  have  hailed  the  invi 
tation  as  the  paean  to  the  bride,  and  gone  with  him  light- 
footed.  Now  she  had  passed  into  that  no  man's  land  where 
bed  is  the  house  of  refuge,  and  its  laws  concern  risings  and 
sleepings  and  the  administering  of  food.  In  so  far  as  he 
would  drag  her  forth,  he  was  an  invader,  her  enemy. 

"Where's  Bess?"  she  helplessly  besought  him.  Bess, 
being  omniscient,  would  know  whether  this  thing  had  to  be. 

"You  needn't  put  on  all  your  things,"  he  encouraged 
her.  "  We  're  going  down  the  back  path  to  the  Valley  of 
Birds.  Nobody '11  see  you.  In  ten  minutes  I'll  knock." 

He  left  her,  and  when  the  door  closed  behind  him,  she 
could  feel  no  relief.  She  knew  he  was  on  the  other  side  of 
it,  inexorable,  and  that  here  was  the  chance  she  had  come 
back  to  seize  —  of  being  a  wife  after  his  own  indifferent 
heart,  now  mysteriously  requiring  her.  She  did  get  up,  and 
she  did  dress,  the  outer  covering  only  her  pretty  neglige; 
and  with  a  shawl  over  that  and  her  braids  down  her  back  she 
looked  like  a  frightened  creature  reft  unprepared  from  home. 
She  opened  the  door  uncertainly,  hoping  he  was  gone ;  but 
he  was  there  in  the  plenitude  of  his  strength  and  mastery. 

"That's  a  good  girl,"  said  he.  "Now  take  my  arm. 
We  '11  slip  out  at  the  side  door,  and  nobody  '11  be  the  wiser." 

Bess,  she  prayed,  would  be  the  wiser.  All  her  hope  lay 
in  championship,  at  some  random  point,  when  they  went 
through  the  house.  But  the  sitting-room,  the  blinds  closed 
toward  the  full  sun,  lay  in  a  clouded  peace.  Children's  voices 
came  from  the  back,  but  that  was  not  the  way  they  were 
going.  Through  the  door  he  drew  her,  in  a  haste  she  found 
it  hard  to  follow,  and  down  the  path  between  the  carrots, 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      309 

through  the  gate  and  into  a  green  lane.  Midway  in  the  car 
rots  she  had  a  recurrence  of  her  sense  that  it  was  absurd  to 
have  them  there,  encroaching  toward  the  house,  but  it  was 
only  a  comment  of  the  mind  now.  Her  feelings  were  en 
gaged  far  otherwise.  Since  she  was  going  to  die  before  they 
reached  home,  what  matter  whether  carrots  had  been  sown 
or  asphodel?  The  lane  led  to  a  miraculous  pasture  here  in 
the  outskirts  of  the  town,  pine  woods,  a  violet  bank  in  the 
early  days  of  the  year,  and  a  spring.  But  in  the  midst  was  a 
circular  knoll,  and  this  was  where  they  were  wont  to  come 
to  sit,  and  here  nested  the  birds  who  had  found  out  that  in 
Winterbourne's  woods  they  were  never  shot.  There  was  a 
peculiar  orchestral  effect  of  them  here,  as  if  the  way  the  val 
ley  lay  drew  in  sounds  from  all  woodland  quarters,  and  in 
the  evening  it  was  brave  to  hear  the  "  kling  "  of  the  thrush, 
and  fancy  you  were  in  deeper  coverts. 

Catherine  knew  its  beauties  and  repute,  and  that  the  way 
to  it  even,  the  winding  lane  with  roses  and  tangled  black 
berry,  was  like  a  road  to  summer ;  but  to-day  the  forms  of 
things  rose  darkly  before  her  eyes,  and  the  smoke  of  glory, 
as  from  an  altar  where  beauty  burns  before  high  God,  was 
absent.  But  still  he  bore  her  along,  talking  a  little,  in  his 
big  voice  that  sounded  louder  than  it  need,  and  she  could 
not  answer.  Winterbourne  never  heeded  that  from  anybody. 
He  was  of  the  race  of  the  born  soliloquist.  What  he  said 
was  the  innocently  egotistic  expression  of  his  own  mind,  like 
savage  man  roaring  in  the  wilderness  because  something  in 
him  demands  release.  After  a  long  time,  it  seemed  to  her, 
they  were  in  the  Valley  of  Birds,  and  Winterbourne  released 
her  arm  with  a  breath  of  content  over  his  clever  purpose. 

"Sit  down  on  the  bank,  Catherine,"  he  bade  her.  "  Lie 
down.  Lie  on  your  back  and  look  up.  Don't  you  call  this 
better  than  the  ceiling  of  a  room  ?  " 


3io      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

She  did  lie  down,  but  on  her  side,  and  put  an  arm  over 
her  eyes  to  shut  out  the  hateful  trees. 

"  We  must  come  by  dawn  some  day/*  he  said,  disposing 
himself  on  the  grass  with  satisfaction.  "That's  when  the 
birds  get  in  their  work.  Little  devils  !  to  say  all  they  've  got 
to  say  while  they  're  alone ;  they  know  we  're  tied  to  our 
beds  by  sloth  and  civilization,  because  we  use  up  every 
thing  we  've  got  in  the  course  of  twenty-four  hours  and  can't 
renew  ourselves  in  time  to  be  up  at  the  morning  chorus. 
If  we  held  service  in  the  woods,  we  should  know  a  few 
things  we  don't  now." 

So  he  rolled  on,  forgetting  Catherine,  forgetting  every  pre 
conceived  determination,  and  conscious  of  what  he  some 
times  called,  in  moments  of  formulating,  the  Pan  feeling, 
the  sense  that  he  was  at  one  with  his  habitation,  the  earth. 
The  earth  currents  ran  without  let  through  his  veins,  and  he 
was  not  too  old  to  feel  his  heart  beat  with  a  serene  ecstasy. 
He  murmured  to  himself  now  stanzas  of  poetry,  the  mean 
ing  of  it,  the  English  or  the  Greek  of  it  not  mattering,  so 
that  the  sound  seemed  to  his  ears  to  fit  the  diapason  of  the 
time.  Winterbourne  felt  blest,  as  he  lay  and  looked  up  into 
his  own  trees.  Here  he  was  in  a  seclusion  he  could  govern, 
as  deep,  so  far  as  the  ear  and  eye  went,  at  this  point,  as  if 
forests  encompassed  him.  He  had  the  robust  health  that 
lets  a  man  still  answer  the  call  of  beauty  and  of  life,  and  dis 
ordering  emotions  were  far  behind  him.  And  then  his  eyes, 
following  down  the  curious  fretwork  of  a  tree-bole  to  the 
needles  below  it,  were  caught  by  the  blue  and  white  figure 
stretched  there  in  its  unthinking  grace,  and  he  remembered 
the  woman-thing  he  had  brought  out  to  lie  in  the  lap  of  the 
woods  and  be  mothered  by  the  great  kindness  of  the  air. 

"Cat,"  he  said  softly,  "you  asleep?" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  in  as  still  a  voice,  not  taking  her 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      311 

arm  down  from  her  eyes.  "  John,  how  are  we  ever  going 
to  get  home  ?  " 

To  her,  also,  it  was  the  primeval  wilderness,  but  with  a 
difference.  He,  in  his  musing,  found  himself  shocked  back 
to  verities.  Here  he  had  been  regarding  the  wood  festival 
as  a  deep  solemnity,  and  she  was  wondering  how  she  could 
get  home.  But  he  bade  himself  remember  that  Bess  said  she 
was  sick,  and  little  as  it  looked  like  it,  treat  her  as  one  in 
competent. 

"You  don't  want  to  go  back  yet,"  said  he.  It  was  a 
kindly  tone,  almost  the  one  he  would  have  used  to  Tonty, 
only  she  never  would  have  been  so  incomprehensible.  "You 
want  to  get  yourself  soaked  with  the  air  and  the  sun." 

"  The  sun  must  be  on  me,"  said  the  muffled  voice.  "  I  'm 
very  warm." 

"  Wait  till  that  sunbeam  creeps  down  the  pine  at  your 
left.  Look  at  it,  Cat.  See  how  it  lights  the  bark." 

She  put  her  arm  closer  over  her  eyes. 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  go  home  and  get  Bess  ? "  she 
asked  him. 

Her  voice  had  a  sound  of  terror.  Winterbourne  thought 
he  heard  the  prophecy  of  tears.  But  it  at  once  became  evi 
dent  to  him  that  she  was  depending  too  entirely  on  Bess, 
and  this  was  the  matter.  Take  away  her  staff,  and  she  would 
walk  alone. 

"You  don't  want  Bess,"  he  said  reprovingly,  and  yet  in  a 
kindly  way,  too,  because  he  could  not,  in  his  heart,  imagine 
how  anybody  who  had  known  the  ministrations  of  that  calm 
strength  could  fail  to  call  on  her. 

"  I  do  want  her,"  Catherine  cried. 

He  scented  hysteria  the  more  nearly. 

"  I  'm  going  to  die,  John.  I  'm  willing  to  die,  but  I  hate 
the  feeling  of  it.  Call  Bess,  or  you  '11  be  sorry." 


3i2      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

The  insistency  of  it  did  move  him,  as  a  woman,  let  her 
be  demanding  enough,  is  sure  to  move  a  man.  He  yields 
out  of  a  large  affectation  of  good-nature  perhaps,  out  of 
chivalry,  of  boredom,  he  may  tell  himself;  but  the  boy  in 
him  answers  the  mother  in  her  and  he  gives  way. 

"You're  a  silly,  Cat,"  said  he.  Nevertheless  he  got  on 
his  feet.  "  I  '11  find  her,  but  Bess  '11  tell  you  you  're  a 
silly." 

At  the  edge  of  the  clearing  he  stopped.  She  had  called 
him  back.  She  was  sitting  up  now,  her  eyes  distraught,  the 
color  in  her  face  disordered. 

"  Let  me  go,  too,"  she  cried.  "  I  can't  be  left  here,  John. 
I  'm  afraid,  afraid!" 

Winterbourne  returned  to  her.  This,  in  a  measure,  he 
could  understand.  He  took  her  wrists,  drew  her  up,  and 
kept  one  hand  within  his  arm. 

"  Come  on  then,"  he  said.  "  I  know  what  you  're  afraid 
of.  I  felt  it  myself  once,  by  the  sea,  in  a  bright  day  when 
there  was  nobody  in  sight  nor  likely  to  be." 

But  her  teeth  were  chattering,  and  she  shuddered  while 
he  led  her  out.  It  was  nothing  to  her  to  know  what  she 
was  afraid  of,  while  the  dreadful  place  loomed  dark  about 
her  and  the  way  through  the  lane  stretched  into  impossible 
miles. 

"  It  was  Pan,"  Winterbourne's  cheerful  voice  boomed 
against  her  ears,  "the  god  Pan.  He's  in  the  stillness,  you 
know.  He  makes  himself  manifest  because  we  omit  his  wor 
ship.  But  the  fear's  all  he  expects  of  us.  That's  recognition. 
That 's  all  he  wants,  old  Pan." 

But  naught  heard  Catherine  save  that  words  were  beating 
at  her  ears,  and  she  felt  her  feet  drag  heavily.  Midway  in 
the  lane  she  stopped,  and  found  a  little  voice. 

"  It's  over,  John.    I  'm  dying." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      313 

Winterbourne,  recalled  from  Pan,  got  an  arm  about  her, 
and  looked  down  into  her  face.  And  then  her  knees  really 
did  give  way,  and  the  weight  of  her  on  his  arm  was  the  only 
sign  of  her  being  a  creature  still  in  this  world.  He  looked 
at  her  distraught,  but  for  a  second  only.  The  spring  —  he 
thought  of  that — was  behind  them.  For  an  instant  he  con 
sidered  leaving  her  there  by  the  pathside,  and  running  home 
for  Bess ;  but  if  she  was  ever  to  wake  she  might  wake 
frightened  and  that  would  be  infernal.  Pan  might  get  her, 
after  all.  So  he  lifted  her  to  his  heart,  and  carrying  her  as 
he  might  have  carried  Tonty,  for  she  was  very  light  and  he 
was  strong,  he  strode  homeward  as  fast  as  he  could  go,  and 
once  he  put  his  cheek  down  to  hers  and  then  kissed  the 
tangle  of  her  hair.  It  was  a  pity  Catherine  could  not  have 
had  the  kiss  in  the  days  when  kisses  freely  given  would 
have  beatified  her;  but  perhaps  then  she  would  not  have 
prized  this  kind  at  all,  for  it  was  pure,  warm  pity  of  some 
thing  he  had  hurt.  And  when  he  came  out  into  the  carrot- 
patch,  there  was  Bess,  as  if  their  need  had  summoned  her, 
standing  like  a  sea-woman  perhaps  watching  for  her  hus 
band's  boat,  hand  over  her  eyes  in  the  attitude  of  those  who 
look  and  wait. 

Winterbourne  thought  he  had  never  been  so  glad  to  see 
any  human  creature.  He  felt  like  throwing  Catherine  at  her 
and  himself  also  into  her  arms  —  those  kind  arms,  in  the 
illusion  of  his  need,  seemed  big  enough  —  and  blubbering 
like  Tony  on  her  breast.  But  all  he  did  do  was  to  stride  on, 
and  say  in  a  monotone  when  he  reached  her,  — 

"  I  've  killed  her,  Bess,  I  Ve  killed  her." 

Bess  turned,  and,  he  noted,  stepping  over  carrot-plumes 
with  precision,  went  on  with  him.  She  took  up  Catherine's 
lax  hand  and  held  the  wrist  a  moment. 

"  I  've  killed  her,  Bess,"  he  said  again  ;  and  she  answered 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

him  quite  seriously,  as  if  she  had  to  believe  every  word  he 
said,  — 

"  No,  no,  you  did  n't  mean  to." 

And  then  Winterbourne  despaired  indeed,  andjtnew  Bess 
also  judged  that  Catherine  was  dead.  He  carried  her  into  the 
sitting-room,  as  still  now  as  it  had  been  with  its  morning 
peace  upon  it,  and  laid  her  on  the  old  hard  sofa.  Bess  mean 
time  flew  for  brandy,  for  several  things,  he  thought,  for  she 
came  back  with  her  hands  full ;  but  before  the  brandy  had 
fairly  touched  her  lips,  Catherine's  eyes  opened,  and  Winter- 
bourne,  looking  down  upon  her,  gulped  and  said,  "  My 
God  !  "  He  wanted  to  say  it  a  great  many  times,  knowing  it 
would  be  a  relief  to  him,  but  Bess  gave  him  a  quick  frown 
and  shook  her  head.  He  knew  he  must  be  derelict  indeed 
for  Bess  to  frown  at  him,  and  took  it  meekly.  Catherine  had 
things  administered  to  her,  and  resumed  her  aspect  of  a  hu 
man  creature  with  blood  in  her,  and  then  what  did  she  do 
but  turn  from  Bess  whom  she  had  been  crying  out  for,  who 
was  her  rescuer,  Winterbourne  would  fervently  have  sworn, 
her  earthly  hope  and  prop,  to  him  who  had  dragged  her  from 
her  bed  and  taken  her  out  into  the  tree-solitudes  to  hear  dis 
sertations  on  Pan.  She  smiled  even,  and  when  she  spoke 
there  was  a  little  undertone  of  pleasure  in  her  voice. 

"  Did  n't  we  have  a  nice  time,  John  ? " 

Winterbourne  could  only  stare  at  her.  Then  he  grinned 
a  little.  Catherine  was  game,  he  thought. 

"  You  help  her  upstairs,"  Bess  commanded,  with  her  air  of 
giving  not  much  attention  to  the  present  outward  state  of 
things,  having  so  much  to  think  about. 

So  Winterbourne  put  his  arms  about  his  wife  and  lifted 
her  again,  though  Catherine  had  been  willing  to  take  less  of 
him,  and  carried  her  up  in  silence  to  her  bed. 

When  Bess  came  down,  her  kingdom  being  once  more  in 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      315 

security,  he  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  hall.  His  hand  was 
closed  upon  an  idle  pipe.  Not  even  that  solace  would  he 
allow  himself  until  he  knew  where  he  stood  as  criminal  or 
sound  citizen. 

"  Going  to  hit  me,  Bess?"  he  inquired.  "Going  to  turn 
your  old  father  out  of  doors?  " 

But  she  had  no  questions  to  ask.  There  was  too  much  to 
do  in  the  world,  and  she  had  got  out  of  the  habit  of  curios 
ity,  save  as  it  furthered  deeds. 

"  I  guess  she  '11  go  right  off  to  sleep,"  she  said, "  after  she 's 
had  her  milk  and  egg." 

He  followed  her  to  the  kitchen. 

"What  was  it,  Bess?"  he  insisted. 

"  Why,  she  fainted  away,"  said  Bess,  as  if  faints  even  were 
all  in  the  day's  work.  "  Here,  you  measure  me  a  pint  of 
milk  while  I  beat  these  eggs.  It 's  time  for  Mrs.  Ramsay's 
too." 

Hercules  did  it  with  precision,  being  used  to  chemistry  in 
his  youth. 

"  Is  her  heart  wrong  ?  "  he  suggested.  "  Don't  you  think 
she  'd  better  see  a  doctor  ?  " 

"  She's  just  give  out,  that 's  all,"  said  Bess,  with  one  of  her 
returns  to  the  vernacular.  "  She's  got  no  strength.  That 's 
the  way  they  are." 

"  They  !  "  Who  were  they  ?  He  pondered  on  it  weakly 
and  dared  not  ask.  Had  Catherine  entered  some  classified 
estate  never  more  to  emerge  to  the  vaguer  limits  of  the  mass  ? 
But  he  had  to  inquire  finally,  or  perish  with  the  wonder 
of  it. 

"  Who  's  they,  Bess  ?  "  he  insisted,  following  her  like  a 
boy,  tagging  her  while  she  went  from  kitchen  to  the  stairs 
again  with  her  two  foaming  beakers  deftly  carried.  She  was 
treating  him  like  a  boy,  too. 


316      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  Why,  folks  when  they  've  used  themselves  up,"  she 
vouchsafed  him,  almost  impatiently  it  seemed,  because  he 
did  n't  know.  "  They  get  just  this  way.  Mrs.  Ramsay's  done 
it  one  way;  she  has  another.  Men-folks  do  it,  too.  Some 
times  they  drop  dead  when  they  're  making  a  speech.  That 's 
because  they  've  wore  their  hearts  out.  Sometimes  they  get 
just  like  this." 

She  was  halfway  up  the  stairs  now,  and  he  stood  finger 
ing  the  newel-post  in  a  maze. 

"  Then  it's  getting  worn  out?"  he  said.  "Bess,  hold  on 
a  minute.  If  it's  getting  worn  out,  how  about  you?  I  don't 
suppose  the  rig  you  're  running  here,  being  nigger  dog  to 
everybody,  —  I  don't  suppose  you  think  that 's  going  to  wear 
you  out,  do  you  ? " 

She  looked  gravely  down  at  him  and  made  the  answer  he 
least  expected. 

"  It  might,  I  s'pose,  but  I  don't  mean  to  let  it." 

She  went  on,  leaving  him  confounded.  He  had  looked  for 
some  gay  disclaimer,  some  bravado  of  youth  flaunting  its 
own  strength,  but  the  brief  homely  words  opened  his  mind 
suddenly  to  the  idea  that  she  was  fighting  a  fight  and  knew 
it.  She  was  not  only  serving  other  people,  but  she  had  the 
masterly  sense  to  see  that  she,  too,  must  be  saved. 

"  By  Jupiter  !  "  Winterbourne  swore.  He  dared  not  call, 
as  he  so  often  did  in  mere  warm  blood,  on  the  Most  High 
God  of  all,  because  it  seemed,  in  a  way,  as  if  he  dared  not, 
as  if  he  himself  had  somehow  offended  by  being  out  of  the 
fight,  and  if  he  challenged  the  God  of  all,  he  might  hear 
answers. 


XXV 

CELIA  had  to  meet  Lovell  at  last,  and  hearing  him 
in  the  sitting-room,  asking  Bess  for  her,  she  went 
straight  about  it,  taking  a  hat  in  her  hand  :  for  though 
she  walked  bareheaded  always,  it  seemed  wise  to  indicate 
that  she  was  on  her  way  out  of  doors.  In  the  hall  she  met 
Bess,  who  had  not  lingered  with  him,  and  flashed  a  glance 
at  her.  No,  he  had  not  told.  Bess  wore  her  air  of  serene  pre 
occupation,  not  as  one  who  has  learned  that  an  unexpected 
brother  has  stormed  her  threshold.  And  then  Celia,  with  the 
frankest  air  of  morning  welcome,  unillusioned  by  the  memory 
even  of  kisses  in  the  moonlight,  went  in  to  meet  him.  He  was 
changed.  The  first  glance  at  him  as  she  advanced,  hand  pret 
tily  out,  told  her  that.  As  that  other  moment  had  shocked 
and  terrified  her,  it  had  transfigured  him  with  hope  and  con 
fidence.  He  looked  like  a  splendid  young  man  of  another 
type  than  Dwight  Hunter,  but  as  fortunate  in  strength  and 
prospective  mastery.  She  felt  a  thrill  at  this,  which  might 
have  been  a  little  personal  pride  in  him,  but  was  more  than 
half  gratified  vanity  that  her  momentary  conqueror  was  of 
an  admirable  mould.  Lovell  himself,  if  he  had  had  time  in 
these  fleeting  moments  of  the  best  days  of  his  life,  to  look 
into  a  mirror  and  interrogate  himself,  would  have  wondered 
at  the  change  in  him.  The  old  wary  look  lest  the  undesired 
should  speak  to  him,  the  introspective  beginning  of  bent 
shoulders,  had  given  place  to  the  tense  muscles  and  high  pose 
of  the  man  set  on  victory.  His  love  for  Celia  was  so  infinitely 
more  than  a  fancy  or  a  passion  for  a  girl.  She  had  called 
him  out  of  that  seclusion  where  the  soul  is  practically  done 


3i8       JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

for,  because  it  has  taught  itself  to  desire  nothing.  Now  he 
aspired  to  everything.  If  he  had  had  any  design  of  a  tenderer 
greeting  than  this  hand-clasp  in  the  morning  light,  he  could 
not,  in  the  face  of  her  frank  attitude,  bring  it  about. 

"  I  'm  going  to  walk,"  she  said.  "You  want  to  come?" 

"  I  came  to  get  you,"  said  Lovell,  at  once  delighted  at  their 
according  views.  "  I  want  you  to  come  over  to  the  house  a 
minute." 

"  The  house  ?  What  house  ?  "  The  candid  glance  inquired 
as  her  tone  did. 

"Mine." 

"Why,  I  can't,  Mr.  Lovell." 

The  set  title  he  did  not  like.  He  frowned  at  it,  but  dis 
missed  it  as  matter  that  might  be  settled  at  some  tenderer 
time. 

"Why  can't  you?" 

"  There 's  nobody  to  go  with  me.  Mamma  is  ill  in  bed.  It 
would  be  queer." 

That  he  considered  seriously. 

"Nothing's  queer  in  Clyde,"  he  ventured.  "Except  me. 
I  'm  tabulated  queer,  but  I  'm  not  going  to  be  any  more." 

"Oh,  do  be  queer,"  said  Celia  brightly.  "You  mustn't 
change,  or  I  shan't  know  you." 

"I  shan't  change  about  —  other  things." 

This  was  a  brief  indication  that  love-making  was  not  to  be 
superseded  by  the  overhauling  of  houses.  "  But  I  want  you. 
You  Ve  got  to  come.  Hopkins  is  putting  off  his  vacation  for 
me,  and  we  must  know  what  to  do." 

"Who's  Hopkins?"  Yet  she  knew  who  Hopkins  was. 

"  The  builder.  How  can  he  tell  whether  the  missus  Jll 
like  her  house  unless  she  gives  the  orders?" 

That  note  in  his  voice  almost  angered  her.  She  did  not 
love  him  apparently,  her  appraising  sense  of  the  moment 


JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       319 

told  her.  She  was  sorry.  It  would  have  been  so  easy,  living 
in  the  big  house  with  him,  to  take  Bess  to  her  and  establish 
both  their  lives. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  for  it  was  evident  he  had  meant  in 
another  instant  to  find  her  hand.  "Come  on  out  doors." 

She  spoke  lightly,  as  she  thought  Tonty,  just  arrived  to 
make  her  mother  a  proper  womanly  call,  might  have  spoken, 
and  she  went  immediately  out  of  the  room,  he  following. 
Then  he  had  his  inspiration. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "  there  's  Winterbourne  !  " 

"Where?" 

She  was  going  down  the  path,  her  pretty  dress  enwrapping 
her,  he  felt,  with  similes  surging  about  him,  like  the  calyx 
of  a  rose.  She  hummed  a  little  under  her  breath,  and  he 
knew  that  he  was  following  her  into  the  land  of  faerie.  But 
he  would  much  rather  stay  and  get  the  house  ready  for  their 
mating. 

"  If  you  want  a  chaperon,  why  not  Winterbourne  ?  "  he 
pressed  it.  "  He  's  always  wandering  up  and  down  the  earth. 
He  's  got  nothing  to  do.  In  a  minute  we  shall  see  him  sit 
ting  under  a  tree  somewhere,  and  we  '11  call  upon  him  to 
come  and  hear  us  talk  ceilings  and  gutter-pipes." 

Celia  laughed  and  sang  a  little  clearly.  Winterbourne  was 
not  going  to  be  told  secrets  about  engagements.  But  there 
was  no  danger.  She  knew  where  he  was  ;  he  had  gone  down 
to  the  Ramsays'  to  lull  three  little  Ramsays  into  seemliness 
with  old  wives'  tales  while  Tonty  made  her  call. 

"  I  can  talk  ceilings  just  as  well  outdoors,"  said  she. 
"Come,  let's  go  into  the  Valley  of  Birds.  Mr.  Winter- 
bourne  's  down  there  lying  on  his  back,  smoking.  Come." 

Lovell  fell  into  step  with  her  and  they  went  down  the 
lane,  Celia  singing  in  her  light  true  voice,  with  a  regret  she 
could  never  help  behind  it,  that  hers  was  not  the  marketable 


320      JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

one.  Then  we  should  see.  Out  in  the  open  day,  daring  came 
on  her,  and  a  sense  of  mastery  over  such  a  helpless  thing  as 
a  man  in  love.  Why  had  she  dreaded  to  see  him  ?  He 
could  n't  kiss  her,  because  there  would  never  be  any  mo 
ment  when  she  was  unprepared.  He  couldn't  marry  her 
against  her  will.  He  was  a  well-made  creature  with  a  domi 
nating  look  now  there  was  something  he  wanted  to  domi 
nate;  but  she,  too,  was  good-looking,  and  she  could  take  a 
hand  at  reigning.  And  the  woman's  desire  to  play  with  what 
it  has  caught  possessed  her,  and  she  liked  it.  She  had  been 
all  her  later  life  the  plaything  of  another's  will.  Catherine  had 
pursued  her  into  the  desire  to  be  something  of  mark,  and 
now  suddenly,  through  nature  and  not  herself,  because  a  man 
was  a  man  and  she  had  inexplicably  bidden  him  remember 
that  she  was  a  woman,  she  stood  queen  in  her  own  right. 
At  the  wood-opening  she  stopped  and  turned  her  candid 
eyes  on  him. 

"  I  don't  believe—  "  She  hesitated  here,  and  he  helped  her 
tenderly. 

"What  don't  you  believe,  dearest?" 

"  I  don't  believe  I  want  Mr.  Winterbourne  told  why  you 
are  taking  me  to  see  the  house.  I  don't  want  anybody  told." 

That  seemed  fitting  in  her,  a  most  maidenly  deliciousness. 
He  was  a  poet,  and  he  thought  he  saw  with  her  the  lovely 
vague  outlines  of  her  dream. 

"  Don't  you,  dearest  ? "  He  bent  toward  her,  better  to  note 
the  flush  in  her  cheek  averted  now  while  she  broke  a  spray 
from  the  wilding  hedge,  and  showed  the  more  to  him  her 
sweet  confusion,  —  for  it  was  not  a  blossomy  spray,  but  only 
a  homely  branch  to  give  pretext  to  her  eyes  and  fingers.  "  I 
want  them  to  know.  They'll  have  to  know,  you  see.  If 
we  were  back  a  century  or  two,  I  could  carry  you  off  to  my 
stronghold,  but  not  now." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S  FAMILY      321 

"  I  'd  like  that  better,"  said  Celia,  and  laughing,  looked  at 
him  again. 

It  was  not  a  confused  face  she  turned  on  him  ;  it  was  just 
Celia's  face,  untouched  by  soft  emotion.  But  he  was  in  his 
dream,  and  she  looked  to  him  any  way  and  of  any  hue  the 
dream  required. 

"I  should  like  it  better,  too,"  he  said;  and  her  heart 
leaped  in  a  kind  of  resentment  at  his  voice  and  the  messages 
it  was  willing  she  should  hear.  "  Then  it  could  be  now.  It 
could  be  to-day." 

Celia  did  not  know  she  had  so  many  fierce  passions  in  her, 
and  she  walked  quickly  on  as  if,  though  they  were  within, 
they  were  also  a  mob  that  could  overtake  her.  She  had  had 
her  discontents,  a  plenty,  but  this  virginal  revolt  against  a 
man  appealing  always,  some  secret  voice  in  him  to  a  hidden 
voice  in  her,  and  getting  an  answer  even,  if  only  of  anger 
and  despite,  this  was  new  to  her.  She  hurried  their  pace  into 
the  Valley  of  Birds,  and  sat  down  by  the  tree-bole  where 
Winterbourne  had  bidden  Catherine,  that  other  day,  see  the 
play  of  sunshine  on  the  bark. 

"He  isn't  here,"  she  said.  "Mr.  Winterbourne  is  n't 
here." 

Lovell,  too,  threw  himself  down  and  looked  at  her,  tumul 
tuous  feeling  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  'm  glad,"  he  said.  "  Good  man,  not  to  be  here  !  " 

His  spirit  seemed  to  be  getting  the  better  of  her,  and  she 
found  herself  wondering  whether  it  would  dash  her  self-con 
trol,  make  her  betray  herself  and  show  how  much  she  hated 
him. 

"  Do  you  come  here  often  ? "  she  asked  crudely. 

He  laughed  a  little. 

"  I  used  to  come  a  lot.  That 's  when  I  wrote  poetry.  I 
thought  it  had  got  to  be  written  out-of-doors.  Jackass ! " 


322      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

He  was  smiling  with  an  idle  patronage  for  the  young  poet 
who  had,  after  all  his  shots  at  greatness,  yet  managed  this 
last  crowning  feat  of  man:  persuaded  a  wonderful  girl  to  love 
him.  His  momentary  retrospect  released  her.  For  an  instant 
she  did  not  feel  the  summons  of  that  inner  self  of  his  laying 
fine  wires  to  her  door.  She  could  afford  to  play  a  little  in 
her  turn. 

"  I  want  to  know  your  poetry,"  she  offered  meltingly. 

The  poet,  surprised,  came  broad  awake,  accusingly. 

"  You  said  you  'd  read  it." 

She  caught  herself  up.   Her  laugh  came  on  the  dot. 

"  So  you  did  remember,"  she  challenged  him. 

"  Getting  a  rise  out  of  me  ?    Is  that  it  ? " 

"  I  meant  to  find  out  whether  you  did  remember." 

"Well,  I  did.  I  haven't  thought  of  much  else.  It  was  n't 
the  verses.  It  was  your  reading  'em.  It  seemed  so —  " 

He  could  not  think  logically  of  any  particular  thing  it 
seemed  to  indicate,  except  that  it  was  destined  and  adorable. 

"  But  I  do  want  to  know  them  better,"  she  insisted.  "  I 
want  to  hear  you  read  them.  I  wish  we  had  the  book.  We 
could  read  them  here." 

Lovell,  shaking  his  head  in  decisive  turns  from  side  to 
side,  looked  at  her  in  something  more  nearly  approaching 
a  query  of  her  real  complexion  of  mind  than  he  had  ever 
shown.  It  seemed  to  ask  whether  indeed  she  could  be  cut 
out  of  the  pattern,  or  anything  approaching  it,  of  the  ladies 
who  bade  him  to  teas  with  a  horrible  prospective  tendency 
to  yearn  over  his  verse. 

"  Not  on  your  life,"  said  he.  "  You  don't  catch  this  minor 
poet  reading  his  own  stuff." 

"  But  why  ? "  Celia  persisted,  with  a  delicate  upward  lilt 
of  tone.  "  You  know  so  well  how  it  ought  to  be  read.  You 
could  interpret  it." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      323 

That  had  a  familiar  ring.  Was  this  the  way  the  Ramsay 
faction  used  to  talk  when  they  besought  him  to  share  his 
gifts  with  them  ?  He  felt  a  wave  of  the  old  nervous  terror. 

"  Don't,  dearest.    You  '11  make  me  begin  to  be  deaf." 

"You  can't  be  deaf  with  me.    You  promised." 

"  I  ought  to  have  made  you  promise,  same  time,  not  to 
flatter  me.  I  like  other  kinds,  dearest.  Tell  me  you  like 
me  awfully.  That 's  flattering  enough.  Don't  tell  me  I  'm 
a  poet.  I  'm  just  what  Tony  's  bending  pins  to  catch.  I  'm 
a  minny,  not  a  whale.  Not  a  trout  even.  Just  a  minny." 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  Celia,  "  that  Tim  Ramsay  is  n't 
very  well  understood  ?  " 

"Tim?"  He  showed  his  frank  surprise.  "Why,  there's 
nothing  about  Tim  to  understand." 

"  You  'd  say  he  's  all  on  the  surface  ?  " 

"What  there  is  of  him.  He's  got  a  nice  complexion. 
That 's  on  the  surface." 

He  was  looking  idly  before  him  now,  following  the  waver 
ing  course  of  a  white  butterfly  that  had  somehow  strayed  into 
the  cool  of  the  woods,  and  went  wandering  about,  drawing 
indecisive  curves  upon  the  air,  like  a  weak  hand  striving  to 
form  lines,  and  hesitating. 

"  Don't  you  think  he  might  have  good  ideas,"  she  ven 
tured,  seeing,  in  this  mood  of  his,  how  far  away  they  were 
from  pan-pipes  and  patents,  "  if  somebody  would  only  help 
him  develop  them  ?  " 

"Ideas  about  what?  See  that  butterfly.  He's  lost  in  the 
infinite." 

She  had  time  to  stop  and  widen  her  eyes  over  the  but 
terfly. 

"  If  some  one  would  help  him  out,"  she  ventured. 

Lovell  did  n't  understand.  He  began  to  give  a  lazy 
disquisition  on  Tim,  who  had  never  seemed  to  him  any- 


3 24      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

thing  but  an  unmarketable  commodity  whom  Mrs.  Ram 
say  had,  in  the  period  of  her  discontents  and  unformulated 
theories,  summoned  into  the  world.  Perhaps  he  was  like 
Ramsay,  save  that  he  could  n't  figure.  Perhaps  he  was  the 
memory  of  Mrs.  Ramsay's  girlhood,  before  she  became  a 
caryatid  with  a  world  or  the  temple  of  the  millennium  on 
her  head  and  hands.  But  he  did  not  know  how  to  elucidate 
Tim's  prenatal  tendencies  or  his  present  faculties  to  an 
idealizing  young  woman  who  was  caught  by  his  complexion. 

"  Oh,  Tim  's  all  right,"  he  said  absently.  "  Do  you  like 
white  paint  all  over  the  house?" 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head  at  the  paint. 

"You  see  he  wants  to  make  a  business  venture,"  she 
pursued,  though  doubtfully.  "  And  I  feel  as  if  he  ought  to 
have  the  advice  of  an  older  man." 

Lovell  threw  her  a  quick  look. 

"Tim  Ramsay  been  talking  to  you?"  he  inquired. 

She  retreated.  She  thought  there  was  displeasure  in  his 
tone. 

"  Oh,  no,  not  talking.  Only  he  seems  pathetic  somehow. 
They  don't  teach  him  to  do  anything  —  " 

"  He  would  n't  do  it  if  they  did.  Tim  's  lazy.  He  's  got 
no  stamina.  That 's  why  he 's  lazy.  The  boy  's  no  better 
than  a  weakling  girl." 

"  There,  you  see !  you  own  he 's  to  be  pitied." 

"You're  divine,"  said  Lovell,  falling  into  his  coma  of 
blind  love,  "  you  women.  You  idealize  and  pity  and  build 
up  pedestals,  and  we  're  no  such  matter  as  you  think  us." 
His  mind  had  gone  suddenly  back  to  his  mother  and  sister 
and  their  adoration  of  him,  and  with  this  passion  for  a  girl 
opening  his  eyes  to  the  way  women's  fancies  ought  to  be  cher 
ished,  he  wondered  if  he  had  been  kind  to  them.  "  But  don't 
waste  anything  on  Tim.  He  never  '11  grow  up.  You  '11  see." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      325 

"  I  'd  waste  something  on  him,"  she  dared.  "  If  I  had  it, 
I  'd  waste  —  money." 

The  word  was  out,  the  word  she  had  at  the  back  of  her 
brain,  but  she  said  it  like  a  pretty  jest.  Again  he  threw  her 
that  sharp,  sudden  look,  and  it  stayed  on  her. 

"  What 's  Tim  been  saying  to  you  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  she  protested.  "  Only  I  somehow 
got  the  idea  he  was  clever.  I  thought  he  might  invent 
something,  had  invented  it,  and  I  thought  with  his  father 
always  in  the  city  and  his  mother  sick  —  why,  it  seemed  a 
shame  no  one  should  help  him." 

"  He  brought  something  of  the  sort  to  me  a  while  ago," 
Lovell  said  absently.  "  No,  I  should  n't  give  Tim  money." 

She  rose  to  her  feet. 

"  Come,  then,"  she  wanted  to  say,  "the  talk  is  over.  This 
was  what  we  were  to  consider,  and  since  it 's  ended  and  you 
won't,  there 's  nothing  else." 

He,  too,  rose,  and  stood  staring  at  her,  awed  by  the 
strained  pallor  of  her  face.  He  had  never  seen  her  look 
like  that.  It  was  as  if  the  white  butterfly,  strayed  into  the 
large  darkness  of  the  woods,  had  suddenly  become  the  soul 
of  which  it  was  the  symbol,  and  wanly  faced  him.  Celia's 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  looked  about  her  at  the  tree- 
trunks  and  the  light  sifting  down  beyond  them.  It  was 
all  beauty,  that  impalpable  veil  upon  the  form  of  things  to 
bid  the  soul  worship  and  the  eye  rejoice  in  the  prophecy 
of  the  ineffable.  That  it  was  beautiful  she  saw,  but  she 
could  not  beckon  it  to  her  heart  with  that  glad  rush  of 
music  to  the  ear.  She  had  muffled  herself  so  that  the  call 
of  things  failed  to  reach  her.  She  had  spun  about  herself  a 
web.  What  was  it?  She  thought  of  Bess  with  a  little 
breath  of  relief,  a  grasping  for  her  as  if  that  might  keep  her 
sane.  If  Bess  were  here,  she  would  see  the  beauty.  She 


326       JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

might  be  too  tired,  she  might  have  to  shut  her  lovely  eye 
lids  down  and  just  lie  and  listen  to  the  needles  murmuring; 
but  she  and  the  spot  would  be  akin.  Celia  did  not  even 
know  whether  Bess  had  ever  been  here.  She  felt  indignant 
pity  for  her,  tied  down  to  common  tasks,  and  it  seemed  as 
if  she  must  be  at  home  that  minute,  kissing  her  and  telling 
her  how  wroth  she  was.  But  it  did  not  come  to  her,  since 
Bess  had  been  trained  to  do  all  these  hard,  hateful  things 
and  she  had  not,  that  she  could  make  her  less  tired. 

All  this  time,  a  moment  only  perhaps,  but  long  to  both 
of  them,  Lovell  stood  watching  the  tragic  misery  of  her 
look,  waiting,  in  an  extremity  of  sympathy,  for  it  to  clear. 
She  turned  to  him  slowly.  The  guarded  sweetness  was  off 
her  face.  She  seemed  to  be  about  to  appeal  to  him,  to  beg 
him  to  help  her  brush  away  the  web;  but  the  color  ran 
into  her  cheeks  again,  and  she  laughed  hardily. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "let's  go  home." 

They  went,  silently.  Once  in  the  lane  he  tried  to  take 
her  hand;  but  she  seemed  remote,  and  a  sad  strangeness 
assailed  him. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  at  the  door.  "  What  was  it, 
Celia?" 

Now  she  could  laugh  again. 

"  What  was  it  ? "  she  asked,  in  her  high,  clear  voice. 
"  Why,  nothing !  " 


XXVI 

WINTERBOURNE  was  at  the  Ramsays'  while 
Tonty  made  her  dutiful  call.    He  had  Teeny  on 
one  knee  and  Tiny  on  the  other,  and  Tony  sat 
before  him,  legs  apart  in  painful  travesty  of  man's  majesty, 
whittling,  but  not  omitting  to  keep  a  sharp  ear  out  for  the 
story. 

"  Once  upon  a  time,"  said  Winterbourne,  musing  and 
telling  the  story  to  himself,  as  he  almost  always  did  when 
Tonty  was  not  there,  for  then  he  could  tell  it  to  her,  uonce 
upon  a  time  there  was  a  little  boy/' 

Tony  gave  a  nod  of  perfect  satisfaction.  The  story,  then, 
was  for  him. 

"  Everybody  thought  he  was  a  little  boy,  but  he  was  n't. 
He  was  a  fool." 

Tony,  disgusted,  withdrew  from  participation.  But  then 
he  remembered  there  were  kings'  fools,  and  they  always 
said  the  best  things  and  came  out  ahead.  So  he  took  heart. 

"Was  it  a  king's  fool  ?"  he  asked  hopefully. 

"  Maybe,"  said  Winterbourne.  "  We  '11  see  before  we 
get  through.  Well,  one  day  when  he  was  quite  a  young 
fool,  he  found  he  had  some  money  in  his  pocket." 

"Gold?" 

"Yes,  gold  in  a  silk  purse.  He  had  n't  really  known  he 
had  it,  but  as  soon  as  he  thought  about  it  a  minute,  he  re 
membered  that  every  little  boy  and  every  fool  has  some  to 
buy  things  with.  Only  he  must  be  sure  he  buys  the  thing 
he  wants  most,  for  if  he  does  n't,  he  '11  be  sorry  all  his  life." 

Tony  whittled  no  more,  but,  knife  on   knee,  sat  staring 


328      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

up  at  him.  There  was  poignant  anxiety  in  the  gaze  —  hope, 
too.  Had  he  also  a  silk  purse,  since  it  was  said  that  all  boys 
had  them?  Winterbourne  read  the  query. 

"  No,  Tony,"  said  he,  "  you  won't  find  the  purse  for  a 
number  of  years  yet.  But  you'll  find  it  in  time,  and  then 
you  must  be  sure  to  buy  the  right  things  with  it." 

"  Did  this  fellow  ? "  Tony  asked,  abandoning  hope  for 
himself.  He  was  used  to  these  postponings  of  valuable  ex 
perience  to  some  future  which  was,  apparently,  to  be  his  at  a 
shadowy  time.  It  seemed  to  him  a  part  of  the  disgusting  way 
things  were  arranged.  You  had  to  acquiesce  in  them  for  a  while 
because  grown-ups  had  a  way  of  knowing  how  to  keep  them 
out  of  your  reach  ;  but  when  he  saw  Dwight  Hunter  driving 
a  pair  of  horses,  or  Winterbourne  smoking  a  pipe  of  heavenly 
dusk,  he  knew  this  would  not  be  so  always. 

"  Well,  this  fool  looked  round,  as  soon  as  he  found  he  had 

the  silk  purse,  and  he  saw  a  pretty  child  —  a  little  girl  she 

» 
was  — 

"  One  of  us  ?  "  Tony  inquired. 

"  No,  not  one  of  you.  But  he  liked  her,  and  he  said  to  the 
big  Market-Man,  c  How  much? '" 

"Where's  the  Market-Man?  "  Tony  inquired. 

He  would  never  have  been  allowed  to  interrupt  so  fre 
quently  if  Tonty  had  been  there,  and  this  he  knew  and  it 
gave  the  moment  piquancy. 

"  He  is  said  to  live  up  in  the  sky,"  said  Winterbourne. 
"  But  besides  that  He  lives  on  the  earth  and  in  the  sea." 

"Is  He  a  whale?" 

"  No,  He  's  bigger  than  a  whale." 

"  Then  He  could  n't  live  in  the  world  without  our  seeing 
of  Him." 

"We  do  see  Him  sometimes.  We  could  oftener,  if  we 
didn't  think  about  anything  else.  Well,  the  fool  asked 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      329 

the  big  Market- Man  how  much,  and  He  said,  CA11  you  Ve 

,  •> » 
got. 

"  Did  He  look  in  the  silk  purse?  "  asked  Tony.  "Or  how 'd 
He  know  how  much  he  had  got?" 

"  No,  He  did  n't  look  in  the  silk  purse,  but  He  knew 
what  the  price  was,  because  it's  always  that.  If  a  fool  wants 
to  buy  a  little  girl,  he  must  always  pay  all  he 's  got.  He  can't 
have  any  tops,  or  any  engines,  or  any  bow  'n'  arrers.  One 
reason  is,  little  girls  are  so  hungry.  They  eat  a  lot." 

"  Tonty  don't."  Tony  accorded  this  in  rebuttal. 

"  No,  but  Tonty  hasn't  been  bought  yet.  They're  not 
half  so  hungry  till  they're  bought.  Anyhow,  if  they  are,  they 
don't  say  anything  about  it.  But  there 's  lots  of  things  they 
want  to  eat,  then,  pretty  things,  all  of  them.  They  want  to 
eat  rose-leaves  and  violet-leaves  and  cream  and  honey  and 
cinnamon  and  nutmeg  and  clove  and  mace." 

"Altogether?" 

"Yes,  all  together  and  separate.  And  they  want  everything 
to  smell  like  roses  all  the  time.  Well,  when  the  little  girl 
had  lived  with  the  fool  a  long  spell,  she  thought  she  would 
buy  her  a  little  girl  of  her  own,  and  she  did.  And  she  had 
to  eat  rose-leaves  and  violet-leaves  and  cream  and  honey  and 
mace  and  nutmeg  and  cinnamon  and  cloves.  And  the  fool 
got  tired  of  seeing  them  do  it,  for  he  wanted  beefsteak  and 
bread  and  clear  water  —  " 

"  I  'm  hungry,"  Tiny  piped  from  his  knee,  and  Teeny 
wriggled  with  antiphonal  protest. 

"So  he  said  to  the  two  little  girls,  cYou  run  away  and 
play  in  a  garden  where  you  can  get  rose-leaves  and  violet- 
leaves  all  the  time,  and  I  '11  go  back  home  where  I  was,  and 
lie  down  under  a  haystack  and  go  fast  asleep.'  " 

"  Little  Boy  Blue  !  "  Tiny  remembered. 

"  So  the  two  little  girls  went  off  into  the  garden,  and  I  dare 


330      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

say  they  just  crammed  themselves  with  violets  and  roses, 
there  were  such  a  lot  there,  and  the  rivers  ran  cream  and 
honey,  and  there  was  cinnamon  on  every  bush — " 

"  Stick  cinnamon  ?  " 

This  from  Tony,  who  chewed  it  in  lieu  of  the  tobacco  he 
had  seen  other  yet  not  greater  men  gloriously  squirting. 

"  Yes,  stick  and  ground.  All  the  guns  were  loaded  with  cin 
namon  powder.  They  shot  moonbeams  with  them.  Well, 
the  fool  went  back,  and  lay  down  under  the  haystack." 

"  Was  Boy  Blue  there?"  Tiny  inquired. 

"  Hush  up,"  said  Tony,  "there  ain't  any." 

He  had  reached  the  period  of  agnosticism  when  it  soothed 
him  to  announce,  from  point  to  point,  that  there  weren't  any. 

"  No,  he  'd  waked  up  and  gone  to  look  after  the  sheep. 
But  the  fool  went  to  sleep.  No,  only  just  half  asleep.  He 
could  hear  the  birds  singing  and  the  leaves  moving  and  the 
river  running  by,  and  other  fools  talking  while  they  worked, 
or  bought  little  girls  themselves.  He  had  a  beautiful  time. 
But  pretty  soon  somebody  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 
'Wake  up!'  said  some  one.  It  was  the  little  girl.  And  then 
he  looked  up  and  rubbed  his  eyes  to  get  the  sand  out  of 
them,  and  what  should  he  see  but  the  little  girl  he  had  bought 
and  the  little  girl  she  had  bought.  And  he  saw  the  little  girl 
she  had  bought  had  bought  another  little  girl,  and  there  they 
stood,  the  little  girl  he  had  bought  and  the  little  girl  she  had 
bought  and  the  little  girl  she  had  bought,  three  of  them  in  a 
row.  c  Wake  up,'  said  the  little  girl  he  had  bought.  She  said 
it  quite  loud,  so  he  couldn't  say  he  didn't  hear.  'We've 
all  come  to  live  with  you/  ' 

Teeny  and  Tiny  were  both  wriggling  now.  They  did  n't 
think  it  was  much  of  a  story.  But  Winterbourne  only  kept 
a  clutch  on  each  little  back  and  went  on  with  it.  This  story 
he  was  telling  to  himself. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      331 

"  So  the  fool  waked  up,  and  he  tried  to  stay  awake.  But 
he  could  n't  really.  The  birds  were  singing,  and  they  made 
him  sleepy,  and  the  river  was  running,  and  that  made  him 
sleepy,  and  he  heard  the  grass  growing,  and  that  made  him 
sleepy.  But  he  could  n't  tell  the  three  little  girls  they  must 
go  and  build  them  a  house  of  their  own.  So  he  said,  c  Come 
in.  You  're  welcome.  Help  yourself.' ' 

"  In  the  haystack  ?  "  Tony  inquired. 

cc  Yes.  And  they  came  in.  But  pretty  soon  they  said,  — 
two  of  them  said  it,  — c  Where 's  the  rose-leaves  and  the 
violets  and  the  cinnamon  ? '  And  he  said,  c  There  is  n't 
any.'  " 

"  Which  of 'em  said  it?"  Tony  wanted  to  know. 

"  The  little  girl  he  'd  bought,  and  the  little  girl  she  'd 
bought.  The  other  one  just  ate  bread  and  drank  water.  He 
could  get  things  for  her  as  well  as  not." 

"Then  why  didn't  he  keep  her,  and  send  the  others 
home  ? "  Tony  inquired,  with  masculine  insight. 

Winterbourne  shook  his  head  and  screwed  up  his  face  in 
a  way  they,  for  some  reason,  always  liked. 

"  That 's  it,  Tony.  You  can't  do  it.  After  you  've  bought 
one  little  girl,  she  's  your  little  girl,  and  you  can't  go  round 
swapping  off  for  other  little  girls.  No,  sir.  Well,  there  were 
n't  any  rose-leaves,  and  there  was  n't  any  cinnamon.  And  if 
he'd  had  his  silk  purse  back  again,  so  he  could  go  out  and 
buy  'em,  there  would  n't  have  been  anything  to  buy  beef 
steak  and  bread  with,  and  he  'd  have  had  to  starve.  Tony, 
what  do  you  think  you  'd  do  ?  " 

"  I  'd  let  them  starve,"  said  Tony.  "  They  would  n't 
starve  long.  They  'd  go  into  the  kitchen." 

"Admirable  Tony!"  Winterbourne  cried.  "Wise  young 
judge!  Sage  from  the  Orient!  Has  it  been  put  into  your 
mouth,  O  babe  and  suckling,  to  guide  my  murky  way?" 


332      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

Tony  for  an  instant  thought  he  was  being  made  light  of, 
but  as  he  was  a  young  man  of  proud  self-estimate,  and  Jackie, 
he  had  always  considered,  merely  his  toy  and  tool,  he  de 
cided  to  dismiss  the  suspicion.  Yet  it  clung  slightly  to  the 
word  babe,  disquietingly  like  one  in  more  familiar  use ;  but 
this  he  knew  could  never  be  applied  to  him. 

"Well,  what'd  he  do?"  asked  Tony. 

Winterbourne  sat  dejected. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  owned.  "  No,  I  'm  blest  if  I  know. 
Sometimes  I  think  if  he  was  any  kind  of  a  fool,  he  'd  say  to 
'em  right  out,  4  Now,  if  you  're  going  to  stay  here,  you  come 
into  the  kitchen  and  eat  bread  with  me.' ' 

"  Lyddy  's  in  your  kitchen,"  said  Tony.  "  Only  Harriet's 
in  ours.  Lyddy  makes  little  cakes  like  a  heart  and  that  girl 
gives  'em  to  us." 

"  Lyddy  ?   Lyddy  is  n't  a  girl.  She  's  a  woman-lady." 

"  No,  that  other  girl.    Bess.  She  gives  you  things  to  eat." 

"  Yes,"  said  Winterbourne  dreamily.  "  She  gives  you 
things  to  eat.  Well,  Tony,  so  you  think  they  'd  go  into  the 
kitchen  before  they  'd  starve  ?  " 

But  Tony  had  forgotten  about  that.  He  wished  Jackie 
would  invite  them  all  to  go  home  with  him,  where  the  girl 
undoubtedly,  at  a  hint,  would  give  them  cookies. 

"  I  guess  Harriet  won't  cook  us  anything  to-day,"  he 
offered  speciously.  "  She  don't  ever  cook  little  cakes." 

"  Or,"  said  Winterbourne,  "  suppose  he  should  say  to  the 
big  Market- Man, c  I  'm  very  sleepy,  sir.  I  like  my  bed  here 
by  the  haystack.  I  hate  to  sit  in  parlors,  smelling  cinnamon 
and  rose.'  But  would  the  big  Market-Man  say,  'You  made 
your  choice,  Winterbourne,  old  boy.  I  'm  sorry,  sorry  as  I  can 
be,  but  it 's  the  best  I  can  do  for  you.  No  more  snoozes  under 
haystacks,  listening  to  the  birds.  No  more  deciding  you  'd 
done  your  stent  and  you  could  loaf  the  rest  of  your  days. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      333 

No,  you  're  going  to  keep  moving  now.  There  's  likely  to 
be  a  watchman  on  the  tower,  and  it's  got  to  be  you.' ' 

He  pulled  himself  awake.  He  had  been  near  swearing,  in 
the  distaste  of  it  all,  but  he  remembered  who  sat  with  him 
and  upon  him,  and  forbore.  But  he  had  been  talking  in  a 
grown-up  tone,  and  they  were  tired  of  him.  Tony  shut  his 
jack-knife  and  put  it  in  his  pocket  with  a  manly  air.  The 
two  little  ones  groped  their  way  down,  and  they  all  began  to 
make  new  plans  for  themselves. 

"  Now  you  run  into  the  kitchen  with  Harriet,"  Winter- 
bourne  bade  them.  "  Tonty  '11  be  home  in  a  little  while. 
I  'm  going  back  that  way  and  I  '11  send  her." 

But  Tony  had  plans  of  his  own.  He  saw  Winterbourne 
well  up  the  road  and  set  out  with  a  man's  stride,  head  down, 
after  him.  He  was  going  to  the  house  where  there  lived 
little  cakes  with  holes  in  the  middle.  Tony,  at  this  period 
of  his  life,  had  the  hard  Jot  of  one  who  plays  a  difficult  part. 
He  was  such  a  very  little  boy,  and  yet,  at  moments  of  dash 
ing  imitation,  so  proficient,  that  he  forgot,  and  everybody 
else  with  him,  how  little  he  was.  Therefore  his  career  was 
dotted  with  ignominious  surrenders. 

Tonty  had  made  only  a  short  call,  but  Bess  thought  she 
needed  refreshing  after  it,  and  had  a  little  plate  and  a  cup 
and  saucer  waiting  on  a  small  table  in  the  sitting-room. 
There  was  a  pitcher  with  milk  in  it,  and  a  little  teapot  with 
hot  water  in  it,  and  a  little  sugar-bowl,  because  Bess  knew 
how  much  rather  Tonty  would  sit  down  and  pour  play  tea 
for  herself  than  have  any  number  of  children's  festivals  ad 
ministered  as  to  a  child  in  any  arbor.  Tonty  loved  it.  She 
got  out  of  her  chair  and  put  a  small  kiss  primly  on  her 
mother's  cheek. 

"  Should  you  like  to  have  me  come  to-morrow?  "she  in 
quired. 


334      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

She  herself  was  not  particular.  She  could  not  find  out 
whether  the  pink  lady  known  as  mother,  who  never  got  up, 
really  wished  to  see  her  or  not,  and  she  often  found  her  face 
burning,  when  she  escaped  from  the  prudish  little  calls,  with 
the  effort  to  think  of  something  to  say. 

"  Yes,  Antoinette,  come  to-morrow,"  her  mother  bade 
her.  "  Brush  your  hair  at  night  and  use  the  pink  paste  on 
your  elbows." 

Tonty  went  downstairs  then,  being  familiar  with  the  fact 
that  the  lady  known  as  mother  said  queer  things,  but  accept 
ing  it  in  a  child's  way  because  the  lady  known  as  Bess  seemed 
to  accept  it.  Then  she  had  her  little  luncheon  and  poured  a 
small  cup  of  cambric  tea  for  Bess,  who  took  it  gravely  while 
they  talked  about  dolls  and  whether  they  liked  black  ones 
or  whether  they  were  just  horrid,  and  then  they  went  off 
together  into  the  shed-chamber  where  Bess  thought  she  had 
seen  a  little  trunk  for  a  doll's  clothes.  And  Mrs.  Ramsay 
lay  and  looked  at  the  wall-paper  and  thought  of  nothing  at 
all.  The  working  force,  the  laboring  class  of  nerve  and  muscle 
within  her,  had  taken  its  revenge.  It  was  on  strike.  Her 
nerves  had  been  driven  at  the  pace  of  forty  thousand  motor 
cars  for  years  and  years,  and  now  they  had  lain  down  in  the 
harness  and  said,  "We  won't  go  at  all."  Suddenly  Mrs. 
Ramsay  had  discovered  how  blissful  it  is  to  do  nothing,  and 
neither  ideals  nor  shame  under  the  ministrations  of  her  neigh 
bors  could  woo  her  forth.  Bess,  the  puissant,  could  not  stir 
her.  Now,  she  had  announced,  Mrs.  Ramsay  would  be  the 
better  for  an  afternoon  drive ;  but  Mrs.  Ramsay  would  not 
hear  to  it.  She  did  not  even  answer.  She  turned  her  smooth 
brown  head  on  the  pillow  and  said  she  thought  she  felt  huffy, 
which  Bess,  considering  by  skill  of  her  own,  interpreted  as 
sleepy. 

The  lady's  illness  had  roused  waves  of  consternation  and 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       335 

sympathy  throughout  a  world.  Letters  had  come  from  scores 
of  clubs,  reminders  of  imminent  engagements,  warm  expres 
sions  of  concern  :  for  Mrs.  Ramsay  was  a  power.  But  for  these, 
though  she  must  have  known  their  sources,  Mrs.  Ramsay 
did  not  care.  "  Open  them,"  she  said  to  Bess,  when  the  first 
consignment  came  over  from  Mr.  Ramsay,  helpless  in  the 
emergency  of  a  wife  whose  business  was  a  book  as  tightly 
sealed  to  him  as  his  had  been  to  her,  and  they  had  gone 
naturally  into  Celia's  hands.  She  was  a  graceful  scribe,  and 
wrote  charming  notes  of  explanation,  venturing,  with  every 
hint  of  an  engagement  not  to  be  fulfilled,  to  suggest  that 
Lilian  Winterbourne  would  sing  ballads,  and  enclosing  the 
little  circular  that  had  never  brought  in  a  return.  Only  one 
club  accepted  the  proffer  of  the  unknown  Lilian,  and  when 
Celia,  against  all  probability  of  her  thinking  of  it  with  any 
thing  but  terror,  flew  to  her  in  triumph,  Bess  turned  on  her 
eyes  of  amazed  reproach. 

"  Why,  of  course  I  can't,"  she  said.  "  Who's  going  to  do 
the  work  ?  " 

And  Celia  was  forced  to  rescind  her  offer,  saying,  in  her 
own  fluent  way,  that  she  found  her  sister  had  an  engagement 
for  that  afternoon. 

Ladies  resident  in  Clyde,  hearing  that  Mrs.  Ramsay  was 
lying  ill  at  the  Winterbournes',  called  in  due  form  to  ask 
for  her  and  tender  help.  They  were  darling  ladies,  of  a  kind 
almost  gone  out  now  except  in  the  illustrations  of  artists 
who  don't  know  how  to  do  them,  and  rely  on  guesses  at  a 
period  that,  to  their  young  eyes,  might  as  well  be  known  at 
once  as  the  dark  ages.  They  had  every  accompaniment  of 
a  gentler,  quainter  village  civilization  but  the  crinoline.  Clyde 
was  a  place  where,  though  fashion  was  accurately  copied 
among  the  class  that  had  every  opportunity  and  desire  to 
be  a  smart  set,  you  could  wear  what  clothes  you  pleased. 


336      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

Except  in  the  smart  set,  which  might  have  been  better  known 
as  the  flaunting  annuals  of  the  garden,  changes  in  deference 
to  fashion  were  unheard  of.  The  votaries  of  constancy  would 
as  soon  have  thought  of  altering  the  style  of  their  sleeves 
because  some  French  minion  had  decreed  it,  as  they  would 
of  levelling  a  gambrel  roof  to  a  flat  one,  to  suit  the  season. 
They  bought  the  best  material,  these  dear  ladies,  and  had  it 
made  up  according  to  a  style  that  had  pleased  once  and  kept 
its  vogue  through  worth.  Dolmans  had  been  graceful 
and  genteel.  In  Clyde,  dolmans  never  went  out.  There  was 
IH  every  sewing-room  great  accumulation  of  narrow  black 
velvet  ribbon,  wide  silk  fringe,  and  something  known  as 
lutestring.  With  lutestring  Lovell's  mind  had  intimate  con 
nection.  He  used,  in  his  poet  days,  to  hear  his  mother  talk 
of  it,  and  it  gave  him  a  thrill,  a  response  to  the  time  of 
spinets  and  ringlets,  that  was  never  to  be  lost  to  him.  So 
softly-stepping  ladies  barred  with  parallels  of  velvet  ribbon 
and  tangled  with  fringe,  the  only  thing  about  them  capable 
of  enmeshing,  came  in  their  low-heeled  shoes  to  the  Winter- 
bournes'  door,  and  often  they  brought  jelly  and  delicate  blanc 
mange^  made  from  the  moss  itself,  no  grocer's  instantane 
ous  substitute.  Celia  was  always  delighted  to  receive  them, 
and  they  spoke  of  her  afterwards  as  very  pleasing.  One 
of  them  —  it  was  the  wife  of  the  old  minister  who  had  died 
that  year,  an  ancient  lady  cut  out  of  ivory,  all  yellow  tones 
in  face  and  hair  —  said  to  her,  "My  dear,  I  hear  you  have 
a  beautiful  voice.  Young  Dwight  Hunter  told  me  so.  He 
was  seeing  to  my  cistern.  We've  had  quite  a  time  getting 
it  cleaned  out." 

It  was  her  sister,  Celia  brightly  conceded.  She  was  ready 
to  sing  in  public,  to  women's  clubs  especially.  And  at  that 
instant,  to  her  mortification,  Bess  came  in,  just  pushing  down 
her  sleeves  and  warm  from  kitchen  work. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S    FAMILY      337 

The  minister's  wife,  through  the  habit  of  a  long  life  when 
she  was  first  lady  of  the  town,  had  no  hesitations.  She  looked 
kindly  at  Bess,  and  asked,  "  So  you  're  the  one,  my  dear  ? 
you  're  the  one  that  sings.  I  wish  you  'd  sing  something  to 


me  now." 


Celia  felt  one  of  her  moments  of  despair.  Bess,  she  knew, 
had  her  mind  on  making  breadcake  and  saving  Lyddy.  How 
should  she  recall  even  the  words  of  the  songs  she  had  been 
so  painstakingly  taught  ?  But  Bess  just  sat  down  opposite  the 
minister's  wife,  dropped  her  hands  in  her  lap,  —  those  dear 
plump  hands  like  mothers' hands,  that  looked  sometimes,  so 
great  was  the  surge  and  stress  they  lived  in,  as  if  soapsuds 
had  wilfully  boiled  them,  —  smiled  at  the  minister's  wife 
and  asked,  "  Should  you  like  a  hymn  ? " 

"We  Ve  no  piano  here  —  yet,"  Celia  was  beginning;  but 
Bess  had  evidently  determined  that  this  was  her  venture. 

She  sang  three  hymns,  and  the  minister's  wife  cried. 

"You  have  a  great  gift,  my  dear,"  she  said,  as  she  rose  to 
go.  "  I  must  n't  keep  you  now  from  your  invalids,  but  I 
hope  to  see  your  gift  made  much  of.  I  hope  to  live  to  see 
you  singing  in  church." 

To  sing  in  clubs  and  concert-halls  did  not  much  affect  the 
minister's  wife  and  the  other  ladies  of  her  color  who  pre 
served  the  dear  traditions  of  Clyde.  They,  too,  went  to  the 
meetings  of  the  Woman's  Club  founded  by  the  annual  bed, 
and  relished  every  word,  these  hardy  perennials,  with  an 
unction  the  annuals  could  hardly  guess,  for  it  had  in  it  the 
savor  of,  "It  sounds  as  if  it  must  be  so,  but,  dear  us!  what 
are  we  coming  to  ! "  Yet  all  the  strife  of  factions  and  the 
reaching  out  for  better  things  went  on  without  them,  as  a 
comet  may  whisk  by  the  ordered  stars.  They  really  lived  in 
their  world  of  old  remembrance,  and  after  the  surge  and  dash 
of  club  meeting,  they  melted  softly  back  to  its  repose.  But  the 


338      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

minister's  wife  lost  no  time  in  telling  her  intimates  among 
the  perennials  how  beautifully  Bess  had  sung,  and  a  stream 
of  wilfully  ancient-seeming  ladies  directed  itself,  day  by  day, 
to  the  house,  and  as  regular  as  their  admission  was  the  under 
standing  that  Bess  should  sing  to  them.  For  the  first  time  Celia, 
to  her  perfect  amazement,  saw  her  sister  delighting  in  her 
voice  and  unrestrained  in  using  it.  She  could  not,  it  seemed, 
be  tired  in  this  incidental  homely  sharing  of  her  gift.  Old 
ladies  loved  her,  and  the  news  got  round,  and  the  annuals  in 
their  silken  petals  came  flaunting  in,  and  frightened  her  and 
she  was  dumb.  To  Celia,  the  world  was  upside  down. 

But  something  else  came  of  all  this.  The  waves  of  Mrs. 
Ramsay's  illness  threw  up  other  treasure  on  the  shore. 
When  John  Winterbourne  had  come  back,  three  years  be 
fore,  to  live  in  his  house,  there  had  been  a  waft  of  curiosity 
and  interest.  Men  and  women  who  had  known  him  a  little 
in  his  youth,  or  been  the  intimates  of  his  father  and  mother, 
came  to  call;  but  he  never  returned  the  visits.  He  was  im 
mersed,  they  found,  in  his  book,  and  he  seemed  to  show 
them  out  with  haste,  not  surprising,  because  they  hoped 
they  knew  the  ways  of  scholars.  And  he  had  taken  to  an  inti 
macy  with  James  Trenton  Lovell,  and  this  also  was  fitting,  be 
cause  James  was  a  scholar  and  a  poet,  too,  though  debarred, 
poor  fellow !  by  his  infirmity  from  entering  into  the  village 
life.  But  now  it  became  known  through  the  lively  interest 
in  perennials  and  annuals  that  there  were  at  Winterbourne's 
(this  in  another  language,  that  of  the  young  men  who  went 
to  town  daily)  two  stunning  girls,  and  it  was  to  be  hoped, 
when  the  illness  in  the  family  was  over,  that  the  town  would 
see  more  of  them. 

Celia  was  in  evidence.  She  often  walked  abroad,  clad  in 
gowns  that  commended  themselves  almost  holily  to  the 
feminine  eye  that  knew  how  to  distinguish  what  when  it 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      339 

becomes  what,  though  the  young  men  thought  she  must  be 
a  particularly  nice  girl  because  she  dressed  so  simply.  She 
was  really  pretty,  too,  they  decided,  for  her  beauty  spoke 
for  itself  without  adorning  ;  and  at  this  their  sisters  laughed 
aloud  and  lost  no  time  in  enlightening  them  on  the  money 
and  genius  that  go  into  clothes  wonderfully  conceived  and 
simply  made. 

These  things  that  were  going  on  below  stairs,  Catherine 
did  not  guess.  She  was  thinking  how  incredible  a  thing  it  is 
that  man  who  has  once  loved  us  should  not  love  us  again, 
and  whether  she  had,  as  mistress  of  the  house,  any  duty  to 
Mrs.  Ramsay  as  a  guest,  and  whether  the  moral  obliquity  in 
Celia  was  straightening  out.  She  and  Mrs.  Ramsay,  each 
knowing  the  other  had  become  derelict,  had,  each  for  the 
other,  a  terrified  distaste.  Far  from  wanting  to  talk  over  their 
ills,  they  chose  not  to  hear  the  mention  of  the  other's  name. 
Each,  an  altruist,  insisted  upon  reigning  absolute  and  egotis 
tical  in  the  kingdom  of  rest.  This  was  nature's  ironic  joke. 
"  You  can't  get  the  better  of  me,"  the  great  jovial  mother 
was  saying  to  them.  "  Broke  my  rules,  did  you  ?  See  how 
you  like  my  reactions." 

But  to  Mrs.  Ramsay  lying  this  morning  in  her  luxury  of 
nothingness,  came  a  sound,  and  perhaps  because  the  mental 
part  of  her  had  gone  so  completely  to  sleep  and  nothing  was 
left  but  the  human  creature  that  holds  the  strings  of  actual 
life,  the  sound  went  straight  to  the  core  of  Mrs.  Ramsay,who 
had,  though  she  ignored  them  as  soon  as  she  could  rise  to 
address  a  meeting,  given  birth  to  beautiful  children.  It  was 
the  cry  of  Tony.  He  had  followed  on  after  Winterbourne, 
at  first  and  as  long  as  he  could  compass  it,  with  his  man's 
stride,  and  then,  when  Winterbourne  seemed  in  danger  of 
getting  out  of  sight,  with  the  dog-trot  of  the  little  boy  afraid 
he  will  be  lost.  For  Tony,  though  he  was  not  the  least  of 


340      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

Mrs.  Ramsay's  children,  was  not  much  used  to  going  out 
alone.  They  always  made  their  raids  as  a  clan,  this  family, 
and  when,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  from  home,  the  world- 
loneliness  suddenly  came  upon  them,  there  was  always  Tonty 
to  become  mother,  by  a  swift  transformation.  No  matter 
what  Tonty  was,  a  pirate  or  a  redskin,  you  had  only  to  call 
on  the  maternal  in  her,  and  there  was  she  beside  each  flagging 
one  to  take  a  hand  or  even  administer  the  rebuke  which  is 
in  itself  so  heartening,  —  because  if  you  thought  you  were 
going  to  be  killed  in  a  few  minutes  by  a  tiger  or  a  ghost,  of 
course  you  could  n't  be  cross  to  your  little  brother.  You  'd 
be  going  to  see  God  almost  the  next  instant,  and  you  'd  be 
afraid. 

But  now,  Tony,  alone,  unsupported  by  his  clan,  was  out  of 
breath  and  heart.  Suddenly  he  was  all  baby,  and  his  legs,  as 
he  called  on  them,  hatefully  shortened.  His  throat  hurt  him, 
and  he  was  in  a  rage  with  Winterbourne,  who  would  n't  turn 
round  and  see  him,  and  ask  where  he  was  going.  Then  he 
could  answer,  as  man  to  man,  "  Oh,  I  thought  I  'd  go  over 
to  your  house,"  and  Winterbourne  might,  in  a  kind  of  rough- 
and-tumble  wherein  there  was  no  offence  to  dignity,  toss  him 
up  to  his  shoulder  and  carry  him  the  rest  of  the  way.  But 
Winterbourne  never  looked  behind.  He  strode  up  the  path 
to  his  own  door,  threw  open  the  screen  with  one  motion,  and 
disappeared.  Tony  also,  in  due  time,  went  up  the  path  and 
banged  at  the  screen.  No  one  came.  He  flattened  his  little 
nose  on  the  wires  and  looked  in.  The  hall  was  large  and  still. 
There  were  broad  stairs.  He  remembered  climbing  them  that 
other  day  to  see  somebody  in  bed.  Then  —  for  Tony  was 
clever  —  he  considered  that  it  might  be  possible  to  open  the 
door  another  way.  So  he  reached  up  to  the  handle  and 
pulled  it  toward  him,  and  once  it  banged  away  from  him 
and  caught  the  ends  of  two  fingers  when  it  shut.  Rising 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      341 

passion,  of  his  hurt  fingers,  of  his  lonely  soul,  was  pent  in 
him  until  he  had  tugged  it  open  once  more  and  got  round 
the  edge  of  it.  There  he  let  it  go,  and  it  returned  upon  him, 
shamefully  slapping  him,  and  Tony  fell  upon  the  floor  of  the 
great  still  hall  and  cried  aloud,  since  his  warfare  was  over,  to 
all  that  had  deserted  him. 

This  Mrs.  Ramsay,  enisled  in  peace,  heard;  it  called  to  her 
and  her  alone  as,  it  might  be,  there  were  no  other  woman  in 
the  universe.  She  whipped  out  of  bed  and  down  the  stairs, 
barefooted,  and  swooped  upon  the  wreck  of  a  dirty  little  boy 
on  the  point,  if  indications  were  correct,  of  being  deafened  by 
his  own  roars  and  drowned  in  his  own  tears.  She  snatched 
him  up  and,  hand  over  his  mouth,  fled  with  him  to  her  cham 
ber.  There  she  set  him  on  the  floor,  and  Tony,  red  with 
grief  and  suffocation,  could  keep  silence  very  well  now  with 
out  the  restraining  hand.  He  had  been  shocked  into  dumb 
ness.  He  was  afraid  to  cry.  Mrs.  Ramsay  fell  upon  his  tier 
and  tore  it  from  him.  She  skinned  him  as  neatly  as  a  mother 
more  used  to  homely  parts.  Vain  peeling!  he  was  just  as  dirty 
underneath.  His  little  bare  feet  were  dusty  only.  His  clothes 
were  sights.  Not  this  a  child  to  be  taken  into  bed  with  a 
clean  mother,  however  instinct  yearned  for  him.  But  Mrs. 
Ramsay  was  really  a  great  woman,  a  captain  in  emergency. 
She  snatched  a  pillow  from  the  chair  and  reft  its  case  off. 
She  sat  down  and  lifted  Tony  to  her  knee,  and  there  she 
pulled  the  pillow-case  deftly  to  his  shoulder  blades.  He  was 
in  a  sleeping-bag,  frightened  to  death  but  still  securely  there, 
warranted  to  leave  the  cleanest  sheets  inviolate.  And  then, 
before  he  could  do  much  more  than  wonder  whether  it  was 
a  nice  game  and  he  might  laugh,  she  had  slipped  into  bed  with 
him,  and  he  was  scientifically  cuddled  in  her  arms. 

For  an  instant  Tony  thought  it  was  force,  and  the  man 
in  him  rebelled.  Then  two  lips  touched  his  hot,  tear-wet 


342      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

cheek.  That  made  him  consider  a  moment,  and  while  he 
was  reflecting,  his  tired  legs  stretched  themselves  a  little  in 
their  cramping  pillow-case,  and  each  of  them  succumbed  to 
a  sensation  like  drawing  a  long  breath.  He  caught  a  sobbing 
breath  himself,  and  then  another,  and  when  Bess  came  in, 
in  half  an  hour  or  so,  she  found  Mrs.  Ramsay  snuggling  a 
sleeping  Tony  to  her  breast  and  watching  the  door  with 
warning  eyes. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Mrs.  Ramsay.  "  He  's  a  tired  baby." 


XXVII 

WINTERBOURNE  was  wandering  in  the  early 
evening,  as  he  loved  to  do.  The  question  of  his 
complex  family  would  not  down.  Back  and  forth 
in  the  country  road  he  walked,  with  a  look  now  and  then 
at  the  stars.  He  had  his  favorites  among  the  constellations. 
Orion  was  the  boy,  he  was  wont  to  say,  that  kept  you  spe 
cial  company,  he  flashed  there  so  steadfastly  in  that  brave 
line  of  belt  and  sword.  But  there  was  nothing  illuminative 
in  him  to-night.  Winterbourne  thought  of  Lovell,  and 
their  broken  companionship,  and  started  off  toward  the 
little  house  to  find  him.  It  had  not  been  by  intention  that 
their  common  interests  had  failed.  Events  had  been  too 
fussy  and  insistent,  and  come  between  them.  He  scarcely 
saw  Lovell  now,  from  day's  end  to  day's  end.  He  had  a 
confused  and  scornful  feeling  that  the  chap  was  following 
some  girl's  petticoat,  Celia's,  he  believed,  though  Celia  was 
so  far  out  of  his  scheme  of  things  compelling  that  he  could 
hardly  conceive  of  her  luring  with  any  direct  light.  A  moment 
he  stopped  outside  Lovell's  window  and  watched  the  light 
burning  steadily  there.  A  peace,  the  memory  of  old  beloved 
occupations,  fell  upon  him  with  the  unconscious  signal  of 
the  lamp.  He  knew  what  Lovell  was  doing,  bending  over 
his  Greek,  laboriously  putting  it  into  very  good  English. 
Lovell  had  not  his  own  long-continued  practice ;  he  waded 
heavily  at  times,  but  when  he  got  to  the  English  transcript 
he  was  sometimes  winged.  Winterbourne  opened  the  door 
and  walked  in. 

The  picture  was  somewhat  as  he  had  conceived.   Lovell 


344      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

sat  at  the  table,  forehead  upon  his  hand  and  the  other  hand 
stationary,  its  pencil  upon  a  doubtful  point  on  a  sheet  of 
drawing-paper.  Winterbourne  glowed  a  little  at  the  thought 
that  he  had  come  upon  the  dot.  Lovell  needed  him  to  clear 
the  way.  He  threw  down  his  hat,  set  his  stick  in  the  corner 
and  drew  up  his  chair. 

"  Hard  at  it?"  he  inquired. 

Lovell  had  glanced  at  him  at  the  opening  of  the  door,  and 
given  him  a  nod  of  greeting. 

"  I  'm  glad  you  've  come,  Winterbourne."  He  said  it  ab 
sently. 

"  Ay,"  returned  Winterbourne,  in  a  queer  old-fashioned 
way  he  had  sometimes,  of  speaking  out  of  books.  Perhaps 
he  remembered,  in  some  secret  corner  of  him,  that  his  mother 
had  been  Scotch.  "  What  is  it,  lad  ?  " 

"  It's  this  confounded  chimney." 

"  Chimney,  lad  ? "  Winterbourne  had  expected  to  hear 
some  purist's  question  over  readings. 

"  Yes,  this  chimney.  The  furnace-pipe  goes  into  this  flue, 
and  of  course  that  cuts  us  out  of  a  fire  in  the  dining-room. 
Well,  you  want  a  fire  in  the  dining-room  more  than  you 
want  it  in  any  other  room  in  the  house." 

"The dining-room?"  Winterbourne  repeated.  "Jim, what 
have  ye  there  ?" 

Lovell  explained,  with  some  impatience.  It  appeared  to 
his  submerged  mind  that  anybody  would  have  known  why 
he  was  working  on  chimneys. 

"  The  east  chimney,"  he  repeated.  His  hair  hung  over 
his  forehead  and  clung  dankly.  He  looked  harassed  and  yet 
most  happily  alert.  "At  the  house." 

"  Oh,  your  big  house.   Going  to  let  it  ?  " 

"  No,  I 'm  not  going  to  let  it.  I'm  going—  '  He  stopped 
there  and  laughed  a  little.  Celia  was  not  ready,  he  had 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      345 

remembered.  So  far,  it  was  the  secret  of  her  maiden  diffi 
dence. 

But  Winterbourne  had  lost  even  the  perfunctory  inter 
est  that  had  prompted  him  to  question.  He  drew  back  his 
chair  to  the  cold  hearth  and  stretched  out  his  legs  for 
thought.  He  saw  no  reason  why  Lovell  should  not  occupy 
his  outer  mind  with  chimneys,  the  while  the  inner  one  con 
cerned  itself  with  questions  that  are  of  the  only  real  import 
to  breathing  man. 

"  Lovell,"  said  he,  "  I  've  been  thinking  to-day  that  the 
things  our  brains  set  themselves  upon  will  be  swept  away. 
When  the  brain  dies,  the  records  we  Ve  been  graving  on  her 
will  crumble  with  her." 

"  Undoubtedly,"  said  Lovell.  But  while  he  said  it  he  was 
making  marks. 

Winterbourne,  if  he  had  not  become  entirely  absorbed  in 
his  own  thought,  would  have  known  he  dreamed  of  chimneys. 

"  So  what  do  we  want  to  love  our  dear  pursuits  so  much 
for?"  he  inquired  of  Lovell  and  the  world  of  atoms  in  the 
listening  room.  "  We  want  to  read  Greek  because  it  gives 
us  the  keenest  pleasure  we've  yet  known.  We  want  to 
escape  the  man  or  woman  that  keeps  us  from  our  book, 
because  we  love  our  book.  But  when  our  brain  dies,  the 
memory  of  our  book  will  be  'dead,  too.  Won't  it  ?  Or  do 
ye  think  it  won't  ?  Is  the  brain  the  tool  ?  Does  it  make  some 
thing  the  soul  can  keep  ?  " 

Lovell  said  nothing,  but  Winterbourne  had  ceased  to  need 
response.  He  had  embarked. 

"  So  what  lives,  man  ?  It 's  what  's  been  kind.  It's  what 
has  helped  some  other  heart  to  live.  And  we  do  want  to 
live." 

"Yes,"  said  Lovell,  out  of  his  consideration  of  a  niche  for 
a  sideboard,  "  we  want  to  live." 


346      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"We  want  to  see  other  planets.  We  want  to  spin  across 
the  void  and  find  worlds  making.  Yet  I  'm  blest  if  I  'd  choose 
to  be  any  nearer  the  stars  than  I  am  now.  I  don't  like  my 
coat-tails  singed;  but  that's  not  it.  I  want  them  to  be  far 
enough  away  to  keep  that  trumpery  jewelled  look  of  being 
put  up  for  us  to  think  they  're  there  for  us,  and  feed  our  con 
ceit  on  it.  But  we  want  to  live,  Jim.  I  did  n't  use  to  know 
we  did.  I  've  even  thought  within  a  year,  I  could  die,  grate 
ful  for  it  all,  and  be  glad  of  nothingness.  But  I  can't.  And 
if  I  mean  to  live,  I  'm  bound  to  feed  the  only  part  of  me 
that 's  got  any  show  at  all.  Not  my  brain,  Jim.  That 's  not 
got  a  show.  Not  a  sign  of  it." 

"  No,"  said  Lovell,  from  his  housebuilding  study.  "  That 's 
a  fact." 

"  I  don't  despise  the  man  that  tries  to  live  so  he  won't 
go  to  hell,"  mused  Winterbourne.  "  My  old  Scotch  uncle 
used  to  say  the  only  body  that  was  n't  afraid  of  hell  was 
the  one  that  had  n't  been  there.  So  I  think,  Jim,  my  boy, 
if  it's  my  brain  that's  my  stumbling-block,  if  it's  because 
I  want  to  read  my  book  in  peace  that  I  'm  tempted  to  get 
rid  of  whatever  stands  in  my  way,  why,  then  — "  and  a 
familiar  phrase  came  to  him,  and  he  never  paused  to  see 
the  grotesqueness  of  it  here  —  "  why,  then,  I  must  cut  it 
off  and  cast  it  from  me." 

After  that  he  sat  in  silence  and  smoked,  and  Lovell  made 
calculations,  and  neither  had  a  word  more  for  the  other 
until  the  moment  of  parting,  when  Winterbourne,  with  a 
"  Good-night  to  ye,"  took  his  hat  and  stick  and  went  forth. 
Yet  they  had  had  excellent  communion  in  the  way  of  silent 
folk  who  like  the  presence  of  their  kind.  Lovell  breathed 
a  little  faster  for  a  moment  after  he  had  gone,  sitting  there, 
with  pencil  poised,  weighing  his  new  destiny.  He  would 
have  said  there  were  rhapsodies  in  him  to  pour  out  to  Win- 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      347 

terbourne  alone,  who  knew  the  sound  of  the  song  of  life  in 
books  or  from  the  lips  of  man.  But  the  poet  had  cc  no 
speech  nor  language."  He  had  gone  back  into  the  "glory 
and  the  dream  "  where  all  things  are  made  new,  all  of  them 
inevitable,  all  taking  their  orbits  with  a  rush.  And  the  only 
thing  he  could  make  articulate  even  to  himself  was  that  he 
must  have  a  clear  dining-room  flue. 

Winterbourne strode  off  up  the  road;  but  when  he  reached 
his  own  house,  he  could  not  enter.  Houses  constrained 
him.  In  the  night,  outside  walls,  he  felt  himself  wild  and 
glad,  and  a  nature  that  got  no  full  chance  to  speak  in  the 
prescribed  intercourse  of  men,  talked  freely  with  unseen 
presences.  Winterbourne  had  always,  even  through  his 
youth  and  the  hard  work  of  his  business  life,  held  to  that 
sense  of  the  larger  quest  which  poets  only  keep  alive  in  us. 
He  had  no  defined  religion.  A  creed  made  him  blasphemous 
with  the  childishness  of  vain  repetition.  But  the  core  of 
him  was  a  passionate  belief.  He  knew  there  was  a  reality 
that  answered  to  these  shows  of  things,  and  in  the  night  it 
almost  spoke  to  him.  "  Thou  wilt  call  and  I  shall  answer 
Thee,"  his  soul  said  then.  He  almost  heard  the  call.  It 
seemed  to  be  telling  him  now  that  there  was  a  thing  to  do 
touching  the  muddle  he  had  made  of  his  own  life,  —  not  a 
way  out  of  it  but  a  way  to  answer  the  call  while  he  stayed 
in  it.  It  said  beyond  question,  the  voice,  that  he  could 
never  go  back  to  his  care-free  existence  in  a  slipshod  house 
that  he  hardly  saw  with  his  bodily  eyes  because  the  Greeks 
were  all  about  him.  The  house  was  swept  and  garnished, 
and  old  ladies  of  Clyde  were  daily  filing  through  it.  He 
had  his  own  sufficient  solitude;  but  that  was  not  it.  The 
atmosphere  of  calm  outside  him  had  been  invaded.  Before 
he  had  felt  the  stillness  and  forgetfulness  of  his  kind  to  ex 
tend  through  the  town  —  because,  as  soon  as  the  event  of 


348      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

his  homecoming  was  over  Clyde  had  ceased  to  think  of 
him  —  to  the  sea  it  extended,  and  the  confines  of  the  world. 
And  now  he  was  in  it  again,  life  as  busy  as  a  hive,  and 
Catherine  looked  to  him  as  her  own  special  god,  and  he 
was  really  the  special  god  of  Bess,  he  knew,  and  bound  to 
save  her  before  her  youth  and  bloom  were  gone. 

He  walked  on  over  the  bridge,  pausing  there  as  one 
always  has  to  at  dark  water  for  a  searching  of  its  mystery,  — 
for  by  night  the  shallowest  of  it  may  be  any  depth  and  rich 
in  glints  of  stars,  —  and  then  on  to  Hunter's  where,  late 
though  it  was,  there  was  a  light  in  the  barn  as  there  had 
been  on  the  night  Bess  went  there,  and  Hunter,  the  color 
in  his  face,  was  at  work  like  a  young  artisan  who  has  his 
bread  to  win.  He  looked  up  as  Winterbourne's  foot  struck 
the  barn  run,  and  threw  down  his  tool.  More  red  ran 
into  his  skin  and  he  started  forward.  Did  he  think  because 
she  had  come  there  once  that  she  would  come  again  ?  But 
Winterbourne's  bulk  approached,  and  Dwight  took  up  his 
tool. 

"  Oh,  it 's  you,"  he  said,  in  man's  tone  to  man.  Who 
could  say,  while  he  worked,  what  graces  had  been  circling 
round  him,  calling  him  to  take  hands  for  the  lovely  dance 
of  life  ? 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  "  Winterbourne  queried.  "  What 
do  you  do  it  for  ?  " 

It  seemed  to  him  that  Dwight,  being  free,  might  sit  at 
this  moment  at  a  table  with  a  book. 

"  It 's  the  prettiest  bit  of  inlaying  I  Ve  come  across,"  said 
Dwight.  He  held  his  lamp  to  the  curving  edge.  "Aside- 
board,  don't  you  see  ?  It's  going  between  the  two  windows." 

"Where?"  asked  Winterbourne,  to  show  a  decent  in 
terest. 

"Why,  in  the  dining-room,  man,  of  course."    He  fell  to 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      349 

work  again,  and  Winterbourne,  with  a  sense  that  he  had 
been  hearing  about  dining-rooms  before  that  night,  stood 
still  and  watched  him.  Suddenly  Dwight  came  upright,  tool 
in  hand,  and  looked  at  him  heatedly.  "  Can't  you  do  any 
thing  to  keep  her  from  killing  herself?"  he  inquired. 

Winterbourne  stared  at  him  in  good  faith. 

"  What  do  you  go  round  adopting  girls  for,"  Dwight 
continued  bitterly,  as  if  to  lash  him  into  a  decent  sense  of 
responsibility,  "if  you  're  not  going  to  take  care  of  'em 
after  you  Ve  got  'em  ?  " 

"Do  you  mean  Bess?"  Winterbourne  inquired  humbly. 
The  context  made  it  evident  he  could  not  mean  Celia. 

"  I  do.    I  mean  Bess." 

"  I  agree  with  you.    She  's  being  killed." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  prevent  it,  man  ?  Why  don't  you 
prevent  it?  " 

The  sick  passion  of  the  tone  roused  Winterbourne. 

"You  like  her,  boy?  "  he  said  kindly. 

"Like  her  !  "  The  misery  of  his  voice  and  look  told  how 
wholly  he  had  succumbed  to  the  delirium  of  it. 

Winterbourne  straightened. 

"  Then  I  '11  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  you  can't  have  her." 

"Can't  have  her?" 

"No.  She's  too  damned  precious." 

"  For  me  ? " 

"  For  any  man  in  this  world  gone  wrong,  where  nature 
drives  us  mad  and  we  long  for  a  woman  and  we  make  her 
love  us  and  we  tire  of  her." 

"You  think  I'll  tire  of  her?" 

"You  're  a  man.  You  're  like  the  rest  of  us." 

The  smile  on  Hunter's  lips  told  that  he,  at  least,  was  not 
like  the  rest ;  but  he  put  it  differently. 

"She's  not  like  the  rest." 


350      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  No,  she  's  not.   She  's  fit  for  heroes." 

Dwight  stood  staring  straight  in  front  of  him,  a  rapt  look 
on  his  face.  He  was  no  hero.  He  was  doing  over  furniture. 
But  he  felt  himself  the  size  of  heroes.  He  recalled  himself 
to  Winterbourne. 

"  So  you  're  not  with  me,"  he  said  briefly. 

"  You  must  do  as  you  will,"  said  Winterbourne.  "  She  's 
not  my  child,  though  you  say  I  Ve  adopted  her." 

"She  adores  you."  This  came  bitterly. 

Winterbourne  lifted  his  head  an  inch,  and  his  lips  smiled. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  he  said.  "  I  have  n't  missed  everything." 

He  turned  and  walked  away  out  of  the  barn,  but  in  a 
moment  he  was  back.  Dwight  stood  as  he  had  left  him. 

"  Dwight,"  he  said,  "we're  not  in  our  right  minds.  It's 
come  over  us  too  suddenly.  Get  her  if  you  can.  But  be  good 
to  her.  Don't  stop  loving  her.  My  God  !  why  have  we  got 
to  stop  loving  them,  and  why  can't  they  stop  loving  us  ?  I 
tell  you  what  it  is,  Dwight,  don't  give  up  reading  the  poets. 
There.  Good-night.  Get  her  if  you  can." 

When  he  was  home  again,  he  halted  under  his  wife's  win 
dow,  and  saw  Bess  moving  back  and  forth  against  it,  and 
asked  himself  how  it  would  seem  to  be  young  again  and  the 
lover  of  a  girl.  He  knew  well  how  it  would  seem.  But  he 
took  off  his  hat  and  stood  there  a  moment,  and  the  passion 
in  him  was  a  prayer  that  she  might  find  the  passion  of  love 
enduring. 


XXVIII 

IT  was  next  morning  that  Winterbourne  and  Bess  stood 
talking  for  a  moment  in  the  garden  by  the  gate.  She 
was  looking  for  Tonty,  due  to  make  her  daily  call,  and 
telling  him  about  the  ravishment  of  Tony  and  his  pillow 
slip  eclipse,  and  how  Mrs.  Ramsay,  when  the  time  came  for 
the  awakening  and  the  man-child  roaring  for  his  supper, 
would  hardly  be  parted  from  him. 

"  Then  she 's  a  human  woman,"  said  Winterbourne  grudg 
ingly.  He  never  saw  Mrs.  Ramsay  as  a  normal  being.  "She 
has  a  passion  for  her  young." 

"  It  will  do  her  good,  I  guess,"  Bess  sagely  told  him. 
"  She  seemed  worried  because  he  was  so  dirty.  I  told  her 
nothing  could  be  done  with  so  little  help  at  home." 

Dwight  Hunter  came  in  sight  now,  on  his  big  team,  driv 
ing  slowly  because  he  had  birch-wood  for  a  perennial  lady 
"down  the  road."  Bess  ran  out  and  waited  for  him,  and 
Dwight  stopped,  took  off  his  cap  and  jumped  down  to  speak, 
all  a  rapt  listening,  if  perhaps  he  could  in  some  way  serve  her. 
It  seemed  to  him  he  had  made  a  step  or  two  toward  her 
favor,  since  the  day  she  struck  him  in  the  shed-chamber ; 
but  that  he  now  humbly  knew,  although  it  was  not  conven 
tional,  he  had  won  for  himself  by  his  savage  haste. 

"Remember,"  she  said,  "it's  the  club  to-night.  The 
boys." 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  told  her  fervently,  "I'll  be  there." 

"  I  shan't  go  to-night,"  said  Bess.  "You  need  n't  tell  them 
so,  but  I  may  not  go  any  more.  You  can  teach  them  things, 
and  I  can't  do  anything  but  sing  with  'em." 


352      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

He  stared  at  her,  aghast.  Was  this  the  end  of  his  diplo 
macy  ? 

"Why,  they  won't  sing  for  me,"  he  argued.  Dwight  al 
most  felt  there  were  tears  in  his  voice.  "  They  won't  even 
stay  the  evening  out.  You've  got  to  go." 

"  Oh,  yes,  they  '11  stay,"  Bess  assured  him,  out  of  her  sage 
calm.  "  They  won't  dare  not  to.  Their  fathers  work  for  you. 
I  'm  too  busy.  I  'm  awfully  glad  to  have  you  take  it  off  my 
hands." 

She  gave  him  a  little  kindly  smile  and  left  him.  The 
smile  told  him  she  was  perfectly  certain  of  his  moving  in 
terest  in  boys  with  singing  voices,  and  he  tried  feebly  to 
respond.  But  he  stepped  sorrowfully  on  his  load  again  and 
drove  away.  What,  he  wondered,  had  Winterbourne  to  do 
with  it? 

"  That,"  said  Winterbourne  to  her  as  she  came  back,  "  is 
the  King  of  Clyde."  She  looked  at  him  for  the  reason.  "  He's 
the  only  live  man  here.  All  the  other  live  men  go  into  the 
city  to  earn  money.  They  take  their  brains  out  of  Clyde. 
The  deader  it  is,  the  better  they  like  it ;  it 's  quieter  to  come 
back  to." 

"Why  doesn't  he  go?"  Bess  inquired.  It  seemed  as  if 
she  thought  it  better  that  he  should. 

"  I  'm  going  to  tell  you,  Bess.  Three  years  ago  when  I 
came  back  here,  he  asked  my  advice.  He  was  a  good  deal 
with  Lovell,  and  I  fell  in  with  Lovell  because  of  the  Greek. 
He  asked  my  advice  because  I  was  older.  You  know,  kid, 
your  daddy  's  very  old." 

"  You  're  not,"  she  denied,  with  indignation.  "  You  're 
just  like  any  of  us." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  'm  not.  My  name  is  Tithonus.  Any  grass 
hopper  '11  tell  you.  Well,  Hunter's  father  had  died.  He  was 
a  rich  man,  a  contractor,  a  man  in  politics  in  the  city.  They 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S  FAMILY      353 

kept  this  for  a  summer  place.  Dwight  was  expected  to  go 
in  with  his  father.  He  'd  been  with  him  a  year  or  so,  and  he  'd 
found  out  how  his  father's  contracts  were  got,  how  he  'd 
played  into  the  hands  of  the  politicians  and  they  'd  played 
into  his.  Well,  at  first  Dwight  could  n't  do  anything  about 
it  but  look  into  it.  His  father  was  a  sick  man.  Then  he  died, 
and  the  boy  found  he  was  at  a  good  deal  of  a  disadvantage. 
He  could  n't  well  carry  on  business  at  the  old  stand  without 
playing  the  old  game.  The  firm  was  pretty  well  known. 
And  the  other  sort  knew  it,  too,  the  ones  that  wanted  to  play 
fair.  So  he  elected  to  throw  up  the  job  there,  and  build  up 
something  in  Clyde." 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "of  course  he'd  have  to." 

Winterbourne  rather  expected  to  hear  Dwight  acclaimed  a 
hero,  but  an  indication  of  bare  honesty  was  evidently  no 
more  than  she  expected  of  every  man. 

"  But  he'd  better  go  into  the  city,"  she  said  reprovingly, 
as  if  Winterbourne  had  made  him  an  exile.  "  Not  stay  in 
his  barn  every  night  doing  over  old  furniture." 

"  Don't  you  like  to  have  him  do  over  furniture  ?  "  he  in 
quired  meekly.  He  felt  as  if  she  were  the  mother  of  men, 
with  the  secrets  of  life  in  her  apron-pocket. 

"  Men  that  have  got  to  live  in  the  world  can't  put  aside 
seeing  folks,"  she  answered  briefly.  "  He  'd  better  hunt  up 
the  young  men  he  was  in  college  with,  or  folks  as  good  as 
he  is.  If  he  just  sees  the  men  here  that  are  doing  day's 
works,  he  '11  get  to  think  that 's  all  there  is." 

"  All  there  is,  sapient  one  ?  " 

Bess  had  a  suspicion  that  he  was  laughing  at  her,  but  she 
never  cared,  when  it  was  he. 

"  He  '11  get  to  think  he  knows  it  all,"  she  explained. 
"  He  's  pretty  young." 

"  He  's  older  than  you  are,  ninnyhammer,  a  good  two 


354      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S  FAMILY 

years. "  She  ignored  that  even  by  an  eyebeam,  with  an  impli 
cation  that  this  was  beside  the  question.  "  How  about  your 
consorting  with  Lyddy  and  me  and  doing  housework?  "  he 
pursued.  "  How  about  your  deteriorating,  Missy  ?  Bess,  I  'm 
going  to  tell  you  something.  Your  only  salvation  is  to  go 
away  from  here,  and  I  'm  going  to  send  you.  Your  daddy 's 
going  to  send  you/' 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  questioning  apprehension. 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,"  she  said.  "  I  just  could  n't  go." 

"  Why  could  n't  you  ?  " 

"  I  could  n't  go  away  from  you." 

It  was  the  most  innocent  avowal,  and  the  clarity  of  it 
brought  tears  to  his  eyes. 

"  Imbecile  !  "  he  threw  at  her.  "  Kids  have  to  leave  their 
fathers.  They  have  to  go  away  and  learn  to  sing  and  rest 
their  backs  and  use  good  English,  too,  —  you  say  some 
frightful  things,  blockhead." 

She  was  watching  him  with  an  anxious  wistfulness. 

"  I  think  I  get  along  with  my  Italian.  Don't  you  think 
so?"  she  inquired.  For  she  had  incredibly  found  a  half-hour 
here,  an  hour  there,  and  though  she  was  often  sleepy  from 
her  tasks,  she  did  absorb  amazingly. 

"  What  good  is  your  Italian  going  to  do  you,  young  sport, 
if  you  don't  go  anywhere  to  show  it  off?  Of  course  I  'd  rather 
you'd  be  here.  I  'd  rather  you'd  settle  in  a  house  in  Clyde, 
where  I  could  go  in  of  an  evening  and  rest  my  old  bones. 
But  if  you  don't  marry  somebody  in  Clyde,  off  you  go." 

Bess  laughed.  She  knew  the  tempestuous  indignations  of 
him,  the  outcry  that  meant  very  little  wool  indeed.  She  went 
off  down  the  road  to  meet  Tonty,  who  had  been  signalled,  and 
Winterbourne  strode  back  through  the  kitchen  for  a  morn 
ing  call  he  meant  to  make  his  wife.  In  the  kitchen  Lyddy 
took  her  hands  out  of  the  dish-pan  and  hailed  him. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      355 

"  You  sit  down  here  a  minute,"  she  said,  with  the  curtness 
which  clothed  fealty,  "  an*  see  if  you  can  tell  me  what  this 
is.  I  can't  find  my  other  spe'tacles." 

She  had  no  glasses  but  the  ones  that  glittered  now  upon 
her.  This  Winterbourne  knew,  but  he  fancied  Lyddy  had 
long  ago  given  up  the  accomplishment  known  as  reading 
handwriting  as  one  of  the  graces  so  little  to  be  needed  in 
another  state  of  existence  that  it  might  as  well  be  dropped 
now.  She  handed  him  from  her  deepest  pocket  a  wayworn 
letter,  and  he  opened  it  and  read.  It  was  from  the  previously 
hostile  Ann,  and  abounded,  short  as  it  was,  in  professions  of 
piety.  Its  purport  was  that,  having  religion  herself,  she  wanted 
Lyddy  to  know  it  and  to  be  assured  that  they  were  to  meet 
in  the  harbor  of  heaven.  And  she  was  sorry  for  what  was 
past  and  gone,  and  would  Lyddy  tell  Mr.  Winterbourne 
how  much  she  thanked  him  for  mother's  ear-trumpet  that 
she  gave  to  the  young  lady  in  the  kitchen. 

"  Of  all  the  sassy  jades  !  "  Lyddy  commented  sufficiently. 
"  Meet  me  above!  well,  I  guess  when  we  meet,  'twill  be 
somewheres  else.  All  she  means  is,  she's  afraid  I  '11  remem 
ber  I  own  half  that  house,  an'  she  thinks  I  '11  move  in. 
Mebbe  I  will,  to  spite  her." 

Winterbourne  went  on  to  make  his  wife  the  morning  call, 
but  in  the  sitting-room,  face  to  face,  he  met  her.  Catherine 
had  on  a  pretty  floating  dress.  She  was  pale,  and  her  eyes 
sought  his  apprehensively,  as  if,  though  wonder  was  in  her 
as  to  the  amount  she  could  do,  she  was  determined  to  show 
her  will.  For  an  instant  Winterbourne  forgot  she  was  an  in 
valid  unlawfully  out  of  bed. 

"Hallo,"  said  he.  "I  was  going  up  to  see  you." 

"  I  thought  I  'd  come  down  and  ask  whether  we  could  n't 
have  a  little  walk,"  she  said. 

"  And  come  home  as  we  did  the  other  day,  pick-a-back  ? 


356       JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

No,  Cat.  I  don't  take  you  far  from  home  until  you  're  on 
your  pins  again.  But  you  can  get  as  far  as  the  garden,  can't 
you?  There's  the  arbor." 

He  gave  her  his  arm,  and  she  went  with  him  through  the 
kitchen,  where  Lyddy  would  not  look  at  her,  but  sniffed 
brazenly  when  she  was  bidden  good-morning,  though  she 
immediately  conceded  a  reply  on  Winterbourne's  ominous 
pause.  In  the  arbor,  lying  in  a  long  chair  with  the  grape- 
leaves  shading  her,  Catherine  was  glad  within  that  she  had 
not  been  forced  to  go  farther  for  his  company. 

"  Kitty,"  said  Winterbourne,  "do  you  think  you  're  able 
to  talk  a  little  business  ?  " 

She  would  undertake  anything,  her  grateful  glance  told 
him,  so  he  would  call  her  by  some  small  name. 

"When  you  said  you  'd  lost  money,"  he  ventured,  watch 
ing  her  to  see  how  she  might  receive  it,  "did  you  mean  what 
you  said  exactly?  Was  it  all  you  had?  " 

Her  eyes  widened  in  their  look  of  terror. 

"  O  John,"  she  said, "  it  was  all  I  had.  And  Celia  needs 
things  now,  and  so  do  I." 

"Ah  !"  He  said  it  meditatively,  and  seemed  to  retire  be 
hind  his  beard.  Then  he  remembered  she  was  ill,  and  war 
ranted  to  faint  at  any  point,  and  smiled  at  her.  "Well,  well," 
he  qualified,  "  we  must  do  the  best  we  can." 

Celia  at  that  moment  appeared  in  the  doorway,  and  Tim 
Ramsay's  golden  head  rose  over  her  shoulder.  They,  too, 
were  bound  for  the  arbor,  but  seeing  it  occupied,  Celia  smiled, 
and  with  a  hand-wave  turned  back  into  the  house.  She  was 
pale.  Her  eyes  had  shadows  under  them.  At  that  moment 
she  was  no  longer  girl,  but  woman. 

"  What  does  she  want  with  that  yellow-headed  loon  ? " 
Winterbourne  said,  frowning.  "  I  Jd  dress  him  in  petticoats 
and  give  him  a  seam  to  sew.  If  he 's  going  to  be  a  man,  he  'd 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      357 

better  be  put  into  Dwight  Hunter's  gang  and  work  on  the 
road." 

The  side  door  swung  behind  them,  as  he  spoke,  and  Tim 
and  Celia  took  the  path  through  the  lane  to  the  Valley  of 
Birds. 

"Don't  you  like  him?"  Catherine  was  asking.  "Don't 
you  think  he  's  nice  for  the  girls  to  be  with  ? " 

"  Nice  !  Sugar  and  cream,  that 's  all  he  is.  But  Celia  won't 
mind.  She  '11  say  he  's  dear  and  lovely,  if  you  ask  her.  I 
dare  say  she  thinks  so,  too.  She  's  garbled  her  adjectives  so 
long  she  can't  tell  what  they  mean." 

"John,"  said  his  wife,  "I  don't  think  you  like  Celia." 

"  I  don't  know  her.  I  don't  know  the  real  Celia.  I  don't 
believe  Celia  does." 

He  was  talking  to  her  with  plain  honesty,  for  he  had  con 
cluded  that  if  he  and  Catherine  were  to  join  their  fortunes, 
as  the  upper  gods  seemed  to  indicate,  it  must  be  as  business 
partners,  on  the  square.  This  was  prudential,  too.  He  could 
coddle  her  while  she  was  sick.  In  a  time  of  her  need,  he 
could  play  a  game  with  her,  but  heart  and  flesh  would  fail 
him  if  he  were  to  continue  it. 

"  Celia  's  got  an  idea  it 's  attractive  to  find  everything 
darling  and  dear  and  sweet.  It 's  all  her  damned  vanity. 
She  wants  to  be  the  princess  that  had  "jewels  drop  out  of 
her  mouth.  Well,  she  's  earned  her  own  punishment,  and 
she  never  knows  now  whether  she  likes  or  hates.  She  talks 
a  jargon  of  affection.  Maybe  she  feels  it,  but  more  likely  it 
poisons  her.  Reaction, Catherine,  that's  what  it  is.  What  we 
call  punishments  are  reactions.  She  's  littered  her  standards 
up,  and  I  don't  believe  she  can  pick  out  evil  from  good." 

Catherine  was  enormously  taken  with  this.  It  was  the 
kind  of  talk  she  had  always  hoped  he  would  respect  her 
enough  to  share  with  her. 


358      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  her  vanity,"  she  ven 
tured,  wishing  she  might  sound  as  intellectual  to  him  as  he 
did  to  her.  "  Celia  does  n't  seem  to  me  vain." 

"  That 's  it.  She  's  too  vain  to  appear  vain.  She  's  got  a 
theory  of  the  way  she  ought  to  act,  and  she  's  going  to  act 
just  that  way  if  the  bottom  drops  out.  If  I  could  hear  Celia 
swear  once  —  " 

"John!" 

"  If  she  said  to  me  just  once,  '  You  're  a  doddering  old 
fool,  and  your  beard  's  untidy,  and  I  hate  you,'  I  could  say, 
'Good  for  you,  Celia.  You're  half  worthy  to  be  your  sister's 


sister.' 


"You  don't  call  Bess  vain."  There  was  the  old  haunting 
note  of  jealousy. 

"  Bess  !  don't  you  talk  about  Bess.  She  's  your  nurse, 
and  she  Js  broken  her  back  for  you.  And  she  's  my  wife's 
nurse  and  broken  her  back  for  the  whole  of  us.  No,  we 
can't  talk  about  Bess." 

It  was  safer,  even  she  saw,  to  talk  about  Celia. 

"  Don't  you  find  Celia  cheerful  ? "  she  inquired. 

"  No,  not  what  I  call  cheerful.  I  don't  call  a  perfunctory 
twitter  cheerful.  By  the  Lord,  Kit,  that 's  why  I  don't  like 
her.  She  's  no  sense  of  humor." 

"Has  Bess?"  Again  the  tone  he  chafed  under.  "She 
does  n't  laugh  much,  either." 

"  No,  Bess  does  n't  laugh  much.  Maybe  she  has  n't 
time."  He  thought  a  minute,  with  a  sudden  vision  of  her  as 
he  saw  her  a  week  ago,  standing  under  an  apple  tree  in  a 
gleeful  transport  while  Hunter  from  above  passed  her  down 
Tony,  who  had  got  stranded  there.  "  Yes,  I  guess  Bess  would 
laugh  more  if  she  had  time.  She  could  n't  be  on  the  terms 
she  is  with  the  old  earth  and  not  see  her  ironies.  But  I  can  tell 
you  why  Celia  can't  laugh.  She  's  so  busy  scheming  out  what 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      359 

it 's  pretty  to  think  and  feel,  she  would  n't  dare  take  off  her 
hat  to  an  irony.  It  might  not  be  the  irony  other  folks  took 
off  theirs  to." 

"John,"  his  wife  whispered  it  in  her  caution,  "do  you 
ever  see  any  sign  of  her  saying  —  what  is  n't  so  ? " 

"  No,  Kit,  no."  He  shook  his  head  decisively.  He  was 
not  going  to  be  found  in  that  form  of  espial.  Involuntary 
ones  were  enough.  "  I  don't  have  many  words  with  her." 

But  all  the  time,  while  his  tongue  was  continuing  this 
rather  acrid  chattering,  he  was  thinking  of  the  money  she 
had  lost  and  the  money  he  had  n't  earned,  and  wondering 
what  they  were  to  live  on.  There  was  plenty  for  the  pre 
sent.  His  part  of  the  property  was  intact,  but  he  knew 
something  about  his  wife's  exquisite  needs  as  they  used  to 
be,  and  he  had  no  hope  that  a  sumptuous  Celia's  could  be 
less.  And  Bess,  in  spite  of  herself,  was  to  have  the  riches  of 
the  world :  travel,  lessons,  leisure  to  fold  her  dear  plump 
hands  and  listen  to  the  love-making  a  prince  was  probably 
conning  now,  in  a  palace  garden,  till  she  should  come. 

Lyddy  stepped  to  the  door  and  tossed  out  a  bee  she  had 
captured  in  a  towel.  Lyddy  was  queer :  she  would  scarify 
human  creatures,  but  she  could  never  let  a  dumb  thing  suffer 
hurt.  The  sight  of  her  was  like  a  call  to  Winterbourne,  like 
a  key  to  complete  a  circuit  with  his  brain.  He  jumped,  and 
Catherine  jumped  with  him. 

"By  Jove!"  said  he,  "my  pan-pipes." 

"What  is  it,  John?" 

He  laughed  in  pleasure  at  his  cleverness. 

"  Don't  you  fret,  old  lady.  I  '11  patent  pan-pipes.  There's 
nothing  like  them.  It's  a  simple  job." 

He  sat  there  uneasily  for  ten  minutes  or  so,  and  she  could 
not  keep  him.  Impatience  was  upon  him  to  find  his  pan 
pipes  and  be  gone,  perhaps  to  Lovell  to  ask  him  if  the  idea 


360      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

were  really  feasible,  since  Lovell  had  told  him  he  was  a  fool 
not  to  do  it ;  perhaps  to  take  the  thing  apart  and  see  if  some 
more  cunning  channel  could  be  devised.  Catherine  had  lost 
his  attention,  and  she  grew  straightway  tired.  When  she  rose, 
he  got  instantly  on  his  feet. 

"Going  in?"  said  he.  "Come  on,  then.  I  Ve  got  to  find 
something  in  there." 

Celia  on  the  way  down  through  the  lane  looked  at  Tim 
casually.  He  was  moody,  and  he  had  no  talk  to  proffer. 
Even  his  answers  had.  a  sulky  tinge. 

"How  is  it?"  asked  Celia. 

"What?" 

"  How  are  the  pan-pipes  ?" 

"  Blast  the  pan-pipes  !  " 

Celia  looked  at  him  in  delicate  reproof.  Yet  her  eyes  were 
curious. 

"Things  are  n't  going  well?"  she  guessed. 

"Things  would  go  well  if  old  Gregory  would  do  as  I 
asked  him.  What 's  a  man  want  to  go  into  a  thing  for  and 
then  light  out  and  say  no  more  about  it  ?  " 

"  Gregory  ? " 

"  Yes.  I  've  been  up  to  town  twice  to  find  him,  and  they 
say  he  has  n't  been  to  the  office  more  than  half  an  hour  a  day 
for  a  month." 

"What  does  your  father  say?" 

"Dad?  He's  so  surprised  he  acts  as  if  he  was  drunk. 
He  's  taking  charge  and  Gregory  's  raised  his  salary." 

"Why  don't  you  write  ?  " 

"Can't.   Dad  opens  the  letters." 

"  Oh,  but  you  should  tell  your  father." 

"  Not  much  !  He  'd  give  the  whole  thing  away  to  Winter- 
bourne.  Dad  's  no  sport." 

"  But  where  is  Gregory  ?" 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       361 

Tim  looked  gloomily  into  the  grove  they  were  approach 
ing. 

"  That 's  it.  Maybe  he's  gone  on  to  Washington.  Maybe 
he's  forming  a  company.  I  tell  you  I  've  let  Gregory  in  for 
something  good,  and  he  's  playing  fast  and  loose  with  me. 
And  I  can't  get  my  hand  on  the  other  trumpet.  Ann 
Staples  '11  just  as  likely  as  not  wait  a  year  before  she  brings 
it  back.  You  can't  tell  anything  about  those  people.  They 
say  they  're  going  to  do  a  thing  and  then  they  don't  do  it." 

They  had  reached  the  grove,  and  Celia  sat  down  with  a 
graceful  calm,  and  Tim  roamed  back  and  forth  and  flung 
his  hands  about  and  scowled. 

"  Come  here,"  said  she. 

He  came,  and  stood  before  her,  not  scowling  now,  she  was 
so  pretty.  She  was  opening  her  little  silk  bag,  and  he  watched 
her  with  no  more  than  the  interest  you  accord  a  creature  who 
does  everything  charmingly  but  in  whose  present  deed  you 
have  no  concern.  But  she  spread  the  bag  wider  and  drew 
out  something  black  and  queer:  pan-pipes. 

Celia  sat  looking  at  him.  Tim  whitened  under  his  pink 
at  the  surprise  of  it  and  the  simplicity. 

"Where  'd  you  get  it  ?"  he  asked.  "  She  bring  it  back  ?  " 
;  Celia  nodded. 

"  Give  it  to  you  ?  " 

She  nodded  again. 

"Anybody  else  round  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Bully  !  you  got  it  for  me  ?  " 

Something  more  assertive  swelled  his  port,  and  he  seemed 
less  like  Tim  who  was  good  to  play  with  than  a  man  as  other 
men.  She  felt  haughty. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  got  it  for."  Here  she  told  the 
truth.  "  I  got  it,"  she  added,  "  so  that  the  right  thing 


362      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

might  be  done  with  it.  I  did  n't  want  it  to  fall  into  the 
wrong  hands." 

"  Mine  are  the  right  hands/'  Tim  chuckled.  "  Give  it  to 
me,  quick  as  a  wink,  and  I  never  '11  forget  you  the  longest 
day  I  live.  Girls  don't  care  about  spoils,  or  I  'd  see  you  have 
a  lot  of  shares.  Honest,  I  would.  I  will." 

Why  had  she  done  it?  Celia  knew  no  more  than  he.  His 
muddled  comprehension  of  what  might  be  done  with  a  mi 
raculous  trumpet  by  the  time  it  reached  her  was  more  elastic 
still.  She  had  an  unformulated  hope  that  somehow  the  pos 
session  of  it  would  give  her  —  after  Winterbourne  of  course, 
to  whom  the  thing  belonged  —  something  of  the  one  definite 
medium  that  lets  you  stand  upright  on  your  feet  and  face 
the  world.  If  the  trumpet  meant  money,  it  must  mean  that 
to  her.  She  put  it  back  into  the  bag,  and  Tim's  extended 
hand  dropped  foolishly. 

"  Just  what  did  you  want  of  it  ?  "  she  asked  him,  with  her 
nicest  air. 

"  I  want  to  patent  it."  He  was  answering  eagerly,  as  if, 
could  he  satisfy  her,  she  might  yield. 

"  But  Mr.  Gregory  has  the  other  one  to  patent." 

"It's  all  one.  What's  the  use  of  splitting  hairs.  I  told 
you  before.  I  Ve  put  the  only  trumpet  I  had  into  Gregory's 
hands.  S'pose  he  loses  his  ?  S'pose  he  ain't  got  the  right 
kind  of  a  model  made?  We  want  something  to  fall  back 


on." 


But  she  knew  there  was  more.  The  real  reason  was  be 
hind,  for  he  had  told  her.  It  was  to  be  kept  out  of  Winter- 
bourne's  hands,  so  that  when  Winterbourne  said,  "  I  made 
this  thing,"  he  would  have  no  sign  of  it  to  point  at.  It 
looked,  even  to  her  unpractised  mind,  like  a  flimsy  web. 

"  But  Mr.  Winterbourne  could  explain  how  it  was  made," 
she  objected.  "  He  could  draw  a  plan  of  it  in  a  minute, 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      363 

probably.  You  could  n't.  You  don't  know  any  more  about 
it  than  I  do." 

Tim  looked  sulky.  It  was  his  defence. 

"  That 's  nothing  to  do  with  getting  a  patent,"  said  he 
sagely.  "You  just  get  the  patent.  Gregory  knows  how. 
Then  Winterbourne  could  whistle.  He  can't  sue  us.  He's 
got  no  money.  And  when  he  hears  he's  down  for  a  double 
handful  of  shares,  I  guess  even  Winterbourne  '11  withdraw 
any  suit  he's  brought.  Why,  Winterbourne  ain't  got  the 
sand  to  stick  to  anything.  He'll  get  mad,  and  then  he'll 
get  over  it,  and  let  his  wife  pocket  the  loot.  You  '11  see." 

Celia  sat  thinking,  her  hand  on  her  silk  bag. 

"  Don't  wrinkle  up  your  forehead  so,"  Tim  said  daringly. 
"  When  you  do  that,  you  look  thirty." 

She  put  up  her  head  and  flashed  a  glance  at  him.  But  she 
released  her  forehead. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "  I  '11  keep  the  trumpet." 

Then  she  rose  to  go,  and  Tim  in  the  soreness  of  disap 
pointed  hopes  could  think  of  nothing  but  "Oh,  come 
now!"  while  he  turned  with  her  dejectedly.  It  was  half  a 
game  to  him.  It  made  him  feel  experienced,  and  fed  his 
desire  to  stand  among  men  and  cause  them  to  forget  his  pink- 
ness.  There  was  daring  in  it,  too.  He  was  going,  he  thought, 
to  prove  himself. 

"  But  I  tell  you  one  thing,"  he  said,  in  his  way  up  the 
lane,  "just  one  thing.  I  'm  going  to  Washington." 

"What  for?" 

He  did  not  know  what  for.  He  felt  he  was  getting  nearer 
patents  so. 

"  I  'm  going  to  ask  mother  for  the  money.  She  won't  tell. 
She  can't  tell.  She  could  n't  remember  the  word  for  trumpet 
to  save  her  soul." 

Tim  whistled  here,  and  thought  the  day  was  fine  and  the 


364      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

girl  with  him  was  pretty  and  fortune  at  his  elbow.  But  Celia 
continued  thoughtful.  They  reached  the  house  together  and 
he  went  up  the  stairs  to  Mrs.  Ramsay.  Celia  chose  to  go 
through  the  sitting-room,  because  she  could  reach  the  side 
stairs  better,  and  there  sat  Catherine  resting,  and  Winter- 
bourne,  at  his  desk,  was  red  with  wrath.  He  had  pitched  the 
papers  out  of  a  certain  drawer,  and  was  pawing  them  as  if 
the  motion  were,  not  to  find  something,  but  the  product  of 
his  indignation. 

"Where  in  all  the  holes  and  corners  of  a  universe  on  its 
way  to  blinding  torment  is  my  ear-trumpet?"  he  cried. 

Catherine  put  her  hands  to  her  ears,  and  added  her  small 
pipe,— 

"John,  don't!" 

He  was  in  one  of  his  rages  over  little  things.  But  Winter- 
bourne  had  carefully  explained  to  her,  years  ago,  that  little 
things  were  the  only  ones  it  was  possible  to  rage  over.  You 
could  curse  if  a  stream  of  water  hit  you  in  the  face.  You 
never  could  put  out  your  tongue  at  an  avalanche  or  the  sea. 
There  was  colossal  dignity  in  mortal  things,  he  hoped  he 
knew,  and  to  them  he  had  to  bow.  But  there  was  a  set  of 
little  devils  deputed  to  plague  him,  and  in  their  presence  and 
the  action  of  their  machinations  he  was  not  going  to  keep  a 
caitiff's  silence.  Bess  appeared  at  the  door  and  he  faced  her, 
red  of  face  and  bristling. 

"  I  Ve  lost  my  ear-trumpet ! " 

She  echoed  him  innocently, — 

"Ear-trumpet?" 

"  Don 't  repeat  my  words.  I  said  ear-trumpet.  It  was  in 
this  drawer.  It's  gone.  What  infernal  woman  has  been  crawl 
ing  through  my  drawer  ?  " 

"  O  John  !"  Catherine's  voice  came  beating  in. 

Bess  advanced,  in  an  unmoved  calm. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      365 

"  Let 's  see,"  she  said,  with  a  maternal  formula.  "Are  you 
sure  you  put  it  here  ?  " 

"Am  I  sure  I  put  it  here?  Ye  gods,  why  can't  women 
accept  a  fact?  Sure  I  put  it  here?  Girl,  I  tell  you  I  had  it 
here.  Take  that  from  me,  and  say  no  more.'* 

Winterbourne  always  got  academic  when  the  little  imps 
were  after  him,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  it  did  impress  the 
feminine  ear.  Catherine  lay  down  now  on  the  couch  where  she 
had  been  sitting,  as  one  unable  to  leave  the  room  while  the 
storm  was  whistling,  and  Celia  stood  with  whitened  face,  an 
image  of  calm.  She,  too,  knew  she  must  stay  to  see  which 
way  the  wind  would  blow. 

"  What  does  it  look  like?  "  innocent  Bess  inquired. 

"  Look  like?   It  looks  like  an  ear-trumpet." 

"  But  I  never  saw  an  ear-trumpet,  daddy."  She  used 
the  name  unthinkingly,  and  Catherine  and  Celia  stared  at 
her. 

"  Then  it's  time  you  did,  if  you're  all  going  to  run  chariot 
races  through  my  things  and  lose  'em  for  me.  Why,  ninny, 
it  looks  like  the  one  you  've  got." 

"The  one  I've  got?" 

"Yes,  density.  The  one  the  woman  brought  back  and  gave 
to  you  in  the  kitchen." 

"  But  she  did  n't,"  Bess  assured  him.  "  I  have  n't  seen  any 
woman  with  an  ear-trumpet  in  the  kitchen.  No,  Mr.  Winter- 
bourne,  it  is  n't  here.  There's  nothing  here  but  papers  and 
pipes  and  things." 

"  Then  Lyddy  's  right,"  Winterbourne  declaimed,  as  if  the 
discovery  of  the  perfidy  of  all  things  earthly  had  plunged  him 
into  utter  gloom.  "  She  says  the  Stapleses  are  the  devil's  own. 
The  girl  lied.  Who  's  that  knocking  at  my  door?" 

There  had  been  a  demanding  knock  with  a  stick,  evidently 
on  the  screen. 


366      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  I  '11  go,  in  a  second."  This  from  Bess,  who  was  hastily 
stemming  the  tide  of  papers  falling  to  the  floor. 

"Not  in  here,  John,"  Catherine  said  faintly.  "Don't  let 
me  see  any  one." 

"It's  some  fool  of  a  woman  that  wants  to  be  sung  to," 
Winterbourne  said  bitterly  out  of  his  new  understanding  of 
the  frailty  of  things  here  below.  "  Stay  here,  Bess.  I  '11  go 
to  my  own  door,  and  if  it's  an  agent,  he  shall  be  hamstrung." 

When  he  was  over  the  threshold,  Catherine  swung  to  the 
door  behind  him,  so  that  no  stranger  should,  if  he  gained  ad 
mittance  to  the  hall,  give  her  the  necessity  of  speech.  Bess 
had  stopped  short  in  picking  up  the  papers.  She  remembered 
something.  She  turned  to  Celia  standing  there  unmoved,  her 
silk  bag  in  one  hand,  the  other  hand  upon  her  dress,  as  if  in 
another  instant  she  might  lift  her  skirt  and  run  like  Atalanta. 

"Celia,"  said  Bess,  "that  wasn't  the  woman  that  night?" 

"  What  night  ? "  Celia  asked,  in  a  hard  monotony  of  tone. 
Her  eyes  looked  warningly  at  her  sister.  "Don't  speak," 
they  said.  "  Don't  speak." 

But  Bess  ignored  the  message.  Perhaps  it  never  reached 
her. 

"The  night  the  woman  came  and  gave  you  a  package 
when  I  was  out  of  the  room  and  you  said  it  was  the  milk 
man's  wife.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  I  asked  the  milkman  next 
morning  what  she  wanted  and  he  has  n't  any  wife,  Celia.  And 
I  meant  to  tell  you.  I  thought  it  was  a  joke.  I  meant  — 

Her  voice  trailed  off  from  its  unconcern  into  understand 
ing,  into  terror.  Her  face  suddenly  lost  its  rose,  and  with 
thin  white  cheeks  they  looked  at  last  alike,  except  that  Celia's 
pallor  was  that  of  anger  and  hers  was  that  of  fear.  Catherine's 
eyes  were  on  Celia  only. 

"  O  Celia,"  she  said,  in  her  intense  undertone.  "  Was  that 
it  ?  Did  you  tell  her  what  —  was  n't  true  ?  " 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      367 

Celia  turned  her  blazing  eyes  away  from  her  sister's  face. 
She  could  answer  Catherine. 

"You  are  absurd,"  she  said.  "  Yes,  it  was  a  joke.  Of  course 
it  was  a  joke." 

Then  she  walked  out  of  the  room.  They  heard  her  pause 
a  moment  on  the  stairs,  — it  might  have  been  in  trembling 
or  the  intention  to  return;  but  she  went  on,  and  then  Cath 
erine  began  to  cry  weakly. 

"  O  Bess,  how  dreadful  it  is,  how  dreadful  she  can  be!  " 

Bess  had  gone  on  putting  the  papers  back  into  the  drawer. 
She  had  an  air  of  preoccupation  only.  Her  mind  had  with 
drawn  to  its  inner  workroom  to  collect  itself  and  judge, — 
match  little  piece  to  piece. 

"  I  '11  get  you  something  to  take  in  a  minute,"  she  said 
absently.  "  As  soon  as  Mr.  Winterbourne's  caller  has  gone, 
you'd  better  run  upstairs." 

"  It  is  n't  true,"  Catherine  was  insisting.  "  She  had  the 
look  she  always  has  when  she  says  what  is  n't  true.  But 
what  object  could  she  have,  Bess,  what  object  ?  That's  what 
makes  it  so  terrible.  She's  got  to  the  point  where  it's  ingrain. 
She  says  things  without  an  object." 

"  She  told  you,"  Bess  reminded  her.  The  color  had  not 
come  back  to  her  face.  She  looked  stony  with  pain.  "She 
said  it  was  a  joke." 

"It  isn't  a  joke.  John  says  she's  no  sense  of  humor. 
It  was  the  other  thing.  O  Bess,  it  seems  as  if  I  could  die 
if  I  could  keep  her  from  doing  that." 

"  I  could  die,  too,"  the  girl's  inner  self  responded,  but  her 
lips  answered,  "  The  caller  has  gone.  Mr.  Winterbourne 
has  gone  with  him.  Now  you  can  run  up  to  bed." 

Winterbourne,  going  to  the  door,  had  found  there,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  screen,  a  short  globular  man,  dressed 
faultlessly  in  a  light  gray  summer  suit,  with  correct  tie  and 


368       JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

every  evidence  that  he  prized  the  toilet  even  in  its  lesser 
niceties.  He  took  off  his  hat  ceremoniously  and  showed 
that  he  was  bald  save  for  a  little  curling  wisp,  made  for 
comedy,  on  the  top  of  his  poll.  His  face  was  pink  and 
shining. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he,  "  but  can  you  tell  me  how 
to  find  the  Valley  of  Birds  ?  " 

No  man  less  likely  to  seek  out  a  poetic  valley  had  ever 
entered  Winterbourne's  ken.  He  stepped  outside  and  asked 
unbelievingly,  — 

"  Did  you  say  the  Valley  of  Birds  ?  " 

Whereupon,  at  the  first  indication  of  his  lips  to  open,  the 
stranger  whipped  up  an  ear-trumpet  and  presented  the 
mouth  to  Winterbourne.  Winterbourne  fell  back  in  wild 
amaze. 

"  My  God,  man,"  he  bellowed,  "  where  did  you  get  my 
trumpet  ?  " 

He  had  not  omitted  to  speak  into  it,  and  the  stranger,  in 
his  turn,  fell  back.  His  spectacled  blue  eyes  popped  with 
an  absurd  terror.  Now  Winterbourne  remembered  that  he 
had  a  voice  of  dry,  toneless  quality,  one  of  the  voices  of  the 
deaf.  He  was  turning  about  with  a  conclusive  dignity,  in 
haste,  also,  as  if  the  outcome  of  the  affair  had  not  been 
what  he  hoped. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  troubled  you,"  said  he.  "  I  won't 
intrude  upon  you." 

But  Winterbourne  was  after  him.  He  arrested  him  with 
a  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  violently  pulled  about  the  arm 
that  had  seemed  to  be  concealing  pan-pipes  at  his  side. 
Winterbourne  forced  it  to  the  stranger's  ear  and  spoke 
into  it. 

"  The  Valley  of  Birds,"  he  said,  "  is  down  through  my 
lane  and  through  my  carrot-field.  I  '11  show  it  to  you." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      369 

He  finished  after  pan-pipes  had  left  the  stranger's  ear.  "  But 
that 's  my  trumpet,  and  I  can  just  as  well  kill  you  in  the 
Valley  of  Birds  as  here.  Better." 

Therefore  the  stranger  apprehensively,  and  Winterbourne 
with  decision,  walked  off  together,  and  once,  on  their  way 
through  the  lane,  the  stranger  caught  a  bright  yellow  flash 
from  bough  to  bough  of  the  elm  tree  in  the  neighboring 
field.  He  stole  a  look  at  Winterbourne,  a  child's  look  of 
guilt,  of  temptation  not  to  be  denied,  and  whipped  out  pan 
pipes  and  put  it  to  his  ear.  He  stopped  and  stood  en 
tranced.  The  oriole  sang. 

"  Ah ! "  It  was  acute  delight.  However  he  had  come  upon 
pan-pipes,  Winterbourne  forgave  him. 


XXIX 

WHEN  they  reached  the  circle  of  the  grove,  the 
little  man  turned  to  Winterbourne  and  asked,  yet 
as  if  he  already  knew,  — 
"Valley  of  Birds?" 

Winterbourne  nodded,  entirely  tamed,  whoever  had  his 
ear-trumpet,  by  curiosity.  The  little  man  sat  down  on  a 
bank,  his  plump  legs  sticking  out,  and  set  the  trumpet  to 
his  ear.  He  listened  beatifically.  Winterbourne  also  sat, 
slipped  down  an  incline  slightly  on  the  pine-needles,  found 
himself  a  more  commodious  hollow  adapted  to  his  frame, 
and  watched.  The  other  man  had  forgotten  him.  He  sat 
in  a  rapt  communion  with  sound.  And  yet  there  was  not  so 
very  much  sound  either.  It  was  getting  late  for  birds.  Once 
he  turned  the  trumpet  up  into  the  tree,  and  his  mouth 
widened.  He  shook  his  head  in  ecstasy,  as  if  to  say,  "  That 's 
the  boy  for  me,"  and  Winterbourne  wondered  whether  he 
could  possibly  have  caught  the  pother  of  a  squirrel  running 
up  and  down  excitedly,  put  about,  it  seemed,  by  man's  in 
vasion.  Winterbourne,  brimming  with  interest  and  satis 
faction,  thought  he  should  be  content  to  watch  the  stranger 
everlastingly.  He  had  never  seen  a  creature  more  mysteri 
ously  happy.  And  the  trumpet  was  his  own  trumpet. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  about  it.  There  was  even  the 
little  irregular  dent  in  the  rim,  this  from  the  time  his  mother 
dropped  it  on  the  fender. 

Winterbourne  had  a  great  many  illuminating  thoughts. 
He  had  never  considered  that  hearing  was  especially  valu 
able  as  a  factor  of  happiness  to  a  man  over  forty.  It  would 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      371 

be  practically  a  mistake  to  lose  it,  he  knew,  —  but  happi 
ness  !  Was  the  singing  of  birds  so  much  to  mortal  man, 
when  by  diving  into  a  book  the  sea  of  oblivion  to  this  time 
could  close  over  him  and  he  could  be  on  Hymettus  with 
the  bees  ?  He  felt  that  he  had  a  great  deal  to  think  about, 
while  his  silent  companion  was  listening.  He  was  learning 
things  about  life  itself,  and  this,  when  he  could  escape  from 
books,  was  his  game.  Suddenly  the  stranger  drew  a  long, 
open-mouthed  breath  of  satisfaction.  He  put  down  the 
trumpet  and  his  hand  with  it  on  the  ground  at  his  side,  and 
shut  his  eyes  tight  a  minute,  as  if  to  rest  them  from  the 
ecstasy  that  had  been  pouring  in  through  all  the  senses. 
Then  he  opened  them, —  he  had  sudden  ways  for  so  rotund 
a  man,  —  clapped  pan-pipes  to  his  ear,  and  presented  it  to 
Winterbourne. 

"  My  name  is  Gregory,"  said  he.  "  I  have  n't  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  you." 

Winterbourne  wanted  to  know  many  things  far  more  than 
he  wanted  to  fulfil  the  convention  of  telling  his  own  name. 

"How  did  you  hear  about  the  Valley  of  Birds?"  he 
hastened  to  inquire. 

"Article  in  the  Sun"  said  Gregory,  "signed  by  a  man 
named  Lovell." 

"I  told  him  — "  said  Winterbourne,  meaning  to  add, 
"  I  told  him  how  it  would  be."  But  he  cut  it  short,  remem 
bering  the  ecstasy  on  his  visitor's  face.  Did  he  wish  to  shut 
off  any  creature  just  born  into  the  delights  of  sound  ?  "  You 
enjoy  it?"  he  remarked  tritely. 

Gregory  nodded. 

"The  amount  of  it  was  this,"  said  he.  "Since  I've  had 
my  trumpet  —  this  trumpet — I've  been  on  a  prolonged 
spree." 

Winterbourne  looked  at  him  the  more  questioningly,  his 


372      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

correct  clothes,  the  freshness  of  his  face.  Gregory,  accus 
tomed  to  calling  on  his  eyes  to  help  his  ears,  read  the  look 
and  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  no,"  said  he,  "figurative,  figurative.  I  've  given  up 
work,  that 's  all.  I  go  to  the  office  an  hour  every  morning. 
Then  I  escape,  sir,  I  escape.  I  take  this  trumpet  and  run 
away.  I  go  to  vaudeville;  I  get  into  the  country.  I  came 
down  here  because  that  fellow  said  there  were  more  birds 
here  to  the  square  inch  than  in  any  other  bit  of  woods  in 
New  England.  I  'm  on  the  loose.  I  can  hear,  man,  and  I  'm 
going  to  hear  every  sound  that  peeps  for  fear  the  thing  shuts 
down  again.  I  haven't  heard  for  thirty-eight  years.  How 
I  Ve  carried  on  my  business,  God  only  knows.  If  I  had  n't 
a  good  son  and  a  clerk  that 's  worth  his  weight  in  gold,  I 
could  n't,  that 's  all.  What  ? " 

Winterbourne  seemed  about  to  speak,  but  he  hesitated 
gravely.  Could  he  say  to  this  creature  new-born  into  the  world 
of  satisfactions,  "  Where  did  you  get  my  trumpet  ?  "  Was  it 
not  indeed,  by  the  law  of  equity,  Gregory's  own  trumpet? 
Winterbourne  felt  a  little  awed  at  himself  for  inventing  such 
a  thing.  When  his  mother  used  it,  he  had  settled  down  with 
great  pleasure  to  her  satisfaction  in  reentering  family  inter 
course.  But  here  was  a  sane  middle-aged  man  drunk  with 
delight  because  he  was  new-born  again  into  a  world  worth 
living  in.  Winterbourne  felt  like  a  creator,  in  a  small  way. 
He  wondered,  too,  how  many  other  brokers,  hungry  for  the 
song  of  birds,  might  have  been  using  it  if  he  had  spread 
it  broadcast.  Was  this  another  chamber  of  life  he  should 
have  entered  instead  of  running  off  to  his  own  games  in  the 
forest  of  plenty  ? 

"  May  I  see  that  ? "  he  compromised  with  curiosity,  hold 
ing  out  his  hand. 

Gregory  misunderstood  him.  wilfullv.  Winterbourne  saw. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      373 

He  would  not  let  the  thing  go  out  of  his  grasp.  He  lifted  it 
again  and  smiled  at  Winterbourne. 

"When  I  tell  you/'  said  he  confidentially,  "that  this  is 
the  only  trumpet  ever  invented  that  doesn't  change  the 
human  voice,  that  gives  you  Frovafore,  by  Jove !  as  you 
heard  it  when  you  were  fifteen  — well,  I  would  n't  part  from 
it  for  all  the  money  in  the  Standard  Oil." 

Winterbourne  dropped  his  hand.  It  was  Gregory's  trum 
pet,  he  understood.  The  gods  had  given  it  to  him. 

"  Who  owns  this  place?"  Gregory  was  asking. 

"  I  do." 

"  Indeed !  Let  me  congratulate  you,  sir.  May  I  inquire 
your  name  ?  " 

"  Winterbourne.  John  Winterbourne." 

He  was  by  no  means  prepared  for  the  effect  of  this  as  a 
facer.  What  less  moving  than  telling  his  own  unmarked  name  ? 
But  Gregory  dropped  the  trumpet,  hid  it,  Winterbourne 
saw,  in  the  pocket  of  his  loose  coat.  With  some  difficulty 
he  got  on  his  short  legs. 

"I'll  be  going,"  said  he. 

Now  Winterbourne  was  roused.  What  did  the  shade  of 
pallor  mean  overspreading  the  rounded  cheek?  What  that 
gleam  of  the  blue  eyes,  a  moment  before  so  trusting?  He 
also  came  upon  his  feet  and  towered. 

"  No,  you  don't,"  said  he.  "  What  is  there  in  my  name  to 
set  you  off?  Where  did  you  get  that  trumpet?  " 

Gregory  was  walking,  hands  in  his  coat-pockets,  —  that, 
Winterbourne  knew,  to  keep  a  grip  of  one  on  pan-pipes,  — 
he  was  walking  off.  But  Winterbourne  was  in  face  of  him, 
a  hand  rhetorically  extended. 

"  Where,"  he  roared,  forgetting  that  to  Gregory  without 
his  magic  servitor  the  thunder  might  be  rumbling  the  same 
question  without  avail,  "where  did  you  get  my  trumpet?  " 


374      JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

Gregory  could  not,  without  the  loss  of  some  dignity,  con 
tinue.  He  might  dodge  on  the  wood-path,  but  his  legs  were 
short  and  he  was  no  sprinter.  The  red  surged  back  into  his 
face.  He  swelled  a  little  with  a  sudden  anger,  and  plucked  the 
trumpet  from  his  pocket.  Again  he  set  it  to  his  ear. 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  he  stiffly,  "  for  one  of  the  most 
enjoyable  hours  of  my  life.  Good-morning." 

Winterbourne,  without  scruple,  laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm 
and  kept  the  trumpet  in  its  place. 

"  Where,"  said  he,  in  the  modified  tone  adapted,  he  knew, 
to  pan-pipes,  "  where  did  you  get  that  trumpet  ?  " 

Gregory  looked  him  for  more  than  an  instant  in  the 
eyes,  appraising  him.  He  made  his  hasty  resolution. 

"  Come,"  said  he.  "  We  might  as  well  talk  it  over."  And 
it  was  he  who  led  the  way  back  into  the  grove,  Winterbourne 
following.  Gregory  sat  down  on  a  tree-trunk  this  time,  and 
Winterbourne  gravely  took  a  place  beside  him,  near,  also, 
judging  that  the  trumpet,  in  some  fashion,  might  escape  him 
if  it  were  not  within  reach.  Gregory  turned  to  him  with  a 
dash  of  appeal. 

"  Come,  now,"  said  he,  cf  put  yourself  in  my  place.  I 
had  n't  heard  a  word  for  thirty-eight  years.  The  minute  I 
put  that  thing  to  my  ear,  I  was  bewitched.  Do  you  suppose 
I  could  let  it  go  out  of  my  hands  into  a  mechanic's,  to  fiddle 
with  it,  to  make  diagrams  and  models?  He  might  spoil  it. 
God !  you  don't  expect  a  man  that 's  been  deaf  for  thirty- 
eight  years  to  do  a  thing  like  that,  do  you  ? " 

"  By  Jupiter,  no  ! "  Winterbourne  understood  it  all  no 
more  than  the  dead,  but  Gregory  looked  as  if  he  were  going 
to  cry.  He  could  read  the  signs  of  that,  and  wanted  to  say 
to  him,  "  Don't  do  that.  Catherine  does  that." 

"Well!"  said  Gregory.  He  was  in  a  measure  relieved, 
but  he  seemed  to  be  pouring  out  his  grievances  at  once,  the 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      375 

thirty-eight  years  he  had  been  shut  out  from  paradise  and  the 
ironic  chance  that  brought  him  a  trumpet  only  to  snatch  it 
from  him.  "  Nobody  's  understood  it.  Even  my  wife  ain't. 
£  Why  can't  you  'tend  to  your  business  if  you  have  got  an 
ear-trumpet?'  she  says;  c  why  can't  you  'tend  to  it  better?' 
My  son  don't  understand  it.  It's  he  and  the  head  clerk 
that's  keeping  the  house  running.  My  son  comes  to  me, 
and  says,  ' Father,  can't  you  give  us  half  a  day?  You  don't 
need  to  be  off  every  day,  do  you  ? '  And  I  say  to  him,  c  I  've 
given  you  every  day  for  thirty-eight  years  and  I  've  written 
out  my  orders  and  it 's  cost  me  blood.  And  now,'  says  I, 
4 1  can  hear.  Can't  see  what  that  means  to  a  man,  can  ye  ?  I 
can  hear.  And  I  'm  going  to  hear,'  I  says,  {  every  blessed 
thing  that 's  going.'  Why,  man,  when  I  wake  up  now,  I  can 
hear  my  watch  tick  on  the  little  stand,  head  o'  my  bed.  First 
time  I  heard  it,  I  took  it  and  kissed  it.  My  wife  saw  me  do 
it,  and  she  says  to  me, c  Manuel,  you  crazy  ?  ' 

His  blue  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  Winterbourne's,  too, 
filled,  and  he  was  not  ashamed.  But  he  spoke  into  the 
trumpet. 

"Where  did  you  get  the  thing?  where  did  you  get  it?" 

Gregory  was  watching  him  now,  as  if  to  see  how  he  would 
take  it. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  countered,  "he's  your  son." 

"Who's  my  son?" 

"  His  name  's  Winterbourne." 

"  Whose  name  is  Winterbourne  ?  " 

"  But  you  need  n't  tell  me  he  invented  a  thing  like  that.  I 
thought  at  first  he  might,  he's  such  a  fool.  It  takes  a  fool 
to  invent  a  thing." 

"  Oh,  does  it  ?  "  Winterbourne  returned. 

"  When  they  don't  know  anything  else,  they  '11  up  and  in 
vent  something  the  sanest  man  would  n't  have  dreamed  of. 


376      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

Well,  I  thought,  at  first,  he  might  have  done  it.  I  don't  now. 
I  think  the  thing  was  stolen." 

His  excitement  was  so  great,  evidently  over  coils  he  had 
tried  to  loose  before,  that  Winterbourne,  with  an  instinct  that 
it  was  the  only  way,  began  a  species  of  wheedling. 

"Well,  man,  it's  an  interesting  story.  When  did  you  see 
him  first?" 

"  He  came  to  my  office.  He  made  his  way  in  over  a  good 
deal  of  opposition.  Said  he  had  a  message.  Could  n't  see 
anybody  but  me.  I  was  rather  upset  that  day,  for  Ramsay, 
my  confidential  clerk,  was  out,  —  wife  sick,  —  and  the  clerk 
that  brought  the  message  got  an  idea  he  was  from  Ramsay." 

"Ramsay!" 

"So  I  had  him  in.  He  came  up  to  me,  —  I  thought  he 
was  going  to  shoot  me,  but  way  he  looked  I  knew  't  was 
no  such  game, —  and  stuck  this  up  to  my  ear,  and  then  he 
says,  £  Good-morning,  Mr.  Gregory.'  And  I  heard  him, 
plain  as  you  hear  me  now.  I  told  you  how  I  kissed  the  watch. 
Well,  I  wonder  I  didn't  kiss  him.  And  I've  hardly  had 
that  trumpet  away  from  my  ears  long  enough  to  eat  and 
sleep." 

Winterbourne,  brows  shaggily  knit,  was  listening  and 
thinking  hard.  There  was  still  call  for  persuasiveness,  but  he 
wheedled  absently,  having  too  much  to  ponder. 

"It's  a  great  story.  He'd  heard  you  needed  a  trumpet 
and  he'd  brought  you  one  ?  " 

"  He'd  brought  it  to  me  to  get  his  patent." 

"  His  patent !  The  young  whelp  !  " 

Gregory  had  his  turn  at  a  question. 

"  Mr.  Winterbourne,  is  the  young  man  your  son  ? " 

"  I  've  no  son.  Did  the  misbegotten  cub  say  he  was  my 
son?" 

"  No.  but  his  name  is  Winterbourne." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      377 

"  His  name  is  Belial,"  Winterbourne  supplied,  fortissimo. 
"  Where  does  he  live,  the  viper  ?  " 

"Sutton.  That's  his  post-office  address.  And  Sutton,  I 
take  it,  is  next  town  to  this." 

They  looked  at  each  other.  Then  Gregory  went  on  very 
firmly  :  — 

"  Now,  Mr.  Winterbourne,  I'm  all  ready  to  own  I'm  in 
the  wrong.  A  young  man  comes  to  me  and  puts  an  inven 
tion  into  my  hand.  I'm  to  patent  it  for  him.  I  'm  to  engi 
neer  the  thing  and  see  it  through.  I  don't.  I  break  my 
word.  I  sit  down  and  use  the  thing,  and  I  take  no  steps 
toward  doing  what  I  said  I  'd  do.  And  I  see  the  thing's  been 
worn,  and  I  suspect  it's  stolen,  and  I  take  no  steps  about 
that.  I  only  know  I  've  got  something  I  would  n't  part  with 
if  there  was  a  new  commandment  made  to  cover  the  case  — 
not  unless  I  could  get  another  like  it.  That 's  where  we  are." 

Winterbourne's  eyes  still  had  their  far-away  look,  but  he 
put  out  his  hand,  and  Gregory  gripped  it  with  much  satisfac 
tion. 

"If  I  could  tell  you,"  said  Winterbourne,  "how  the 
thing  was  made,  if  I  could  give  you  a  diagram  of  the  inside 
of  it,  so  you  could  have  it  manufactured  at  the  next  shop, 
at  a  cost  of  a  few  dollars,  would  you  believe  I  'd  seen  the 
thing  before?" 

Gregory  believed  him  perfectly,  and  was  content  to  make 
a  nod  for  answer. 

"And  somebody  else  has  seen  it  before,"  he  commented. 
"It's  been  used." 

Winterbourne  was  not  ready  yet  to  tell  him  who  had  used 
it.  He  was  still  pulling  his  brows  together  and  thinking. 
Then  the  most  obvious  thought  of  all  occurred  to  him. 

"How  did  he  look?" 

"The  boy?" 


378      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"Was  he  a  boy?" 

"  Eighteen,  I  should  say.  Looked  sixteen.  Blue  eyes, 
light  hair,  skin  like  a  girl,  all  over  pink." 

Now  Winterbourne  knew.  He  came  to  his  feet  abruptly 
and  his  hat  felt  the  jar.  He  righted  it  with  one  hand  and 
stretched  the  other,  palm  up,  to  Gregory.  He  had  the  effect, 
in  his  passion,  of  resisting  a  stiff  breeze. 

"  Gregory,"  said  he,  "  that's  my  trumpet.   Give  it  here." 

"  Not  on  your  life,"  said  Gregory.  "  Don't  you  under 
stand  me?  I  can't  be  without  it." 

"  I  '11  give  you  another.  You  shall  have  the  twin  of  it,  or 
you  shall  have  this  back.  But  I  know  who  stole  it.  I  '11  con 
front  the  whelp." 

Gregory  removed  it  from  his  ear  and,  with  a  motion  of 
ultimate  decision,  consigned  it  to  his  pocket.  From  that 
point  his  part  in  the  interview  was  a  bold  game  of  guessing; 
he  could  hear  nothing. 

"  No  man  shall  patent  an  invention  of  mine,"  stormed 
Winterbourne.  "  I  '11  patent  it  myself,  or  it  shall  rot.  Do  you 
mark  me,  man  ?  Give  me  my  trumpet." 

"You  've  got  all  your  senses,  and  I  'm  one  short,"  Greg 
ory  hurled  back  at  him.  "  If  you  think  I  '11  give  up  the  one 
thing  that  makes  life  worth  living,  you're  mighty  well  mis 
taken." 

"Take  it  out  of  your  pocket,  you  fool,"  roared  Winter- 
bourne.  "Don't  you  know  this  is  an  epic  moment?  Don't 
you  see  it's  going  to  be  known  through  all  time  as  the 
battle  of  the  ear-trumpet?  It's  your  weapon,  man.  Do  you 
suppose  Hector  would  have  been  slain  if  Achilles  had  kept 
his  spear  in  his  tail  pocket?  Out  with  your  trumpet,  Roland, 
for  this  is  Roncesvalles." 

The  splendor  of  the  moment  had  overcome  him,  and  he 
thought  no  more  of  Gregory  save  as  the  pasteboard  protag- 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      379 

onist  to  give  him  something  to  tilt  against  while  his  own 
steed  of  fancy  pranced  and  curvetted.  But  to  Gregory,  who 
had  no  background  of  historical  tapestries,  the  moment  was 
a  painful  one,  full  of  the  most  prosaic  verities.  Full  of  cru 
elty,  even,  for  it  appeared  that  some  one  was  about  to  push 
him  back  again  into  his  silent  world.  He  began  manfully, 
yet  almost  hysterically  withal,  to  explain  :  — 

"See  here,  I'd  rather  die  than  give  it  up  to  you.  It's 
death  to  be  without  it.  Why,  my  life  ain't  worth  a  rotten 
apple  to  me,  to  lose  it  now  I  've  had  it  once." 

The  market,  if  it.  could  have  seen  its  Gregory,  would  have 
been  amazed.  His  clerks  would  have  looked  upon  him  as 
an  alien  thing.  Here  was  a  man  who,  from  the  very  impos 
sibility  of  doing  his  work  against  odds,  had  done  it  grimly 
and  with  a  savage  precision ;  and  he  was  almost  weeping. 

"I  don't  want  to  take  it  away  from  you,  you  infernal 
idiot!"  Winterbourne  raged,  hysterical  in  his  turn  and  his 
own  way  that  splintered  masts  and  ripped  the  rigging  into 
tatters.  "  Do  you  suppose  I  'd  let  a  thing  lie  for  a  hundred 
years  rotting  in  a  drawer  and  then  steal  it  like  a  felon  from 
the  man  that  needs  it  ?  I  want  to  find  the  cub  that  stole  it, 
that 's  what  I  want.  Take  it  out  of  your  pocket  and  put  it 
up  to  your  ear  so  you  can  hear  sense.  Do  you  want  to  drive 
a  man  crazy?" 

But  Gregory,  immovable  and  grand  as  any  other  defender 
of  a  passionate  interest,  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
one  of  them  clutching  the  trumpet,  and  faced  him.  No 
yielding  was  in  those  tear-wet  eyes  nor  about  the  mouth  shut 
into  a  moveless  line.  They  watched  and  interrogated  each 
other  so,  for  a  pregnant  moment.  Then  Winterbourne  saw 
his  own  defeat.  Nothing  was  left  but  compromise.  He  put 
his  hand  on  Gregory's  shoulder,  turned  him  about,  and 
Gregory  saw  they  were  to  go.  He,  too,  compromised  to  that 


380      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

extent,  and  they  got  step  together  and  went  out  of  the  grove, 
Winterbourne  muttering.  On  their  way  up  through  the 
]ane,  undoubtedly  the  same  thoughts  travelled,  pace  for  pace, 
through  both  their  minds.  Gregory  was  combating  his  im 
pulse  to  run  because  Winterbourne,  long  of  limb,  could  over 
take  him,  and  Winterbourne  was  reasoning  that  he  might, 
if  he  chose,  stop  him  on  the  spot  and  extract  the  trumpet. 
He  was  big  enough. 

So  they  went  on  into  the  street  and  along  its  length, 
Gregory  unknowing  why  he  went,  to  the  Ramsays',  and  there 
Tonty,  watering  an  iris  that  did  n't  need  it  from  a  diminu 
tive  pot  Winterbourne  had  given  her,  and  in  an  ecstasy  of 
housewifely  content,  met  them  joyously,  and  at  sight  of  her 
Winterbourne's  passion  cooled.  He  had  nourished  the  cer 
tainty  that  Tim  would  have  to  be  killed,  that  everlasting 
justice  should  be  satisfied ;  but  Tonty's  serene  little  face 
reminded  him  he  could  not  shed  the  blood  of  Tonty's  Tim. 
So  he  asked  for  him  gently,  and  Tonty  answered  out  of  her 
shyness  because  a  stranger  was  with  him,  that  Tim  had  gone 
to  see  mother.  Winterbourne  turned  back  down  the  path, 
his  prisoner  with  him,  and  Tonty,  rapt  with  delight  because 
they  had  taken  off  their  hats  to  her,  grown  gentlemen  as 
they  were,  watched  them  away.  And  Winterbourne,  going 
up  his  own  path,  where  Gregory  had  hesitated  for  an  instant 
because  it  seemed  as  if  this  might  be  a  point  for  them  to 
part  company,  met  Tim  coming  sunnily  out.  Winterbourne 
forgot  that  this  was  Tonty's  Tim,  and  saluted  him  fortissimo. 

"You  misbegotten  young  cub,  where  is  my  ear-trumpet? 
You  stole  one  ;  now  where  's  the  other  ?" 

And  Mrs.  Ramsay,  sitting  above  at  the  window  in  the 
first  moment  of  her  cure,  when  she  had  wanted  a  book  in 
her  hand,  turned  from  the  pages  of  the  old  fashion-magazine 
Bess  had  innocently  given  her,  heard  and  listened. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      381 

Tim  turned  a  shade  less  pink.  Winterbourne  saw  it,  and 
so  did  Gregory,  who  had  become,  at  sight  of  him,  the  type 
of  man  in  an  office  alive  with  clerks.  Tim  was  instantly  un 
comfortable  in  a  way  he  was  not  used  to.  He  lived  his  own 
capricious  life  untrammelled.  If  he  did  wrong  in  small  ways, 
the  heavens  never  fell.  And  now,  challenged  and  unpre 
pared,  he  spoke  suddenly  and  unadvisedly. 

"  I  have  n't  got  your  trumpet.    Your  daughter  's  got  it." 

Winterbourne,  taken  aback,  stared  at  him. 

"My  daughter?" 

Tim  was  immediately  sorry.  He  knew  he  had  broken  the 
code.  He  had  told  on  his  accomplice,  but  though  that  cer 
tainty  and  regret  were  well  alive  in  him  he  said  without  pre 
meditation, — 

"Yes.   Celia 's  got  it." 

Winterbourne  opened  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  said  he. 

Gregory,  full  to  the  brim  now  with  determination  to  see 
it  through,  preceded  him,  and  so,  constrained  by  a  glance, 
did  Tim,  impudent,  but  uneasy.  In  the  sitting-room  Bess, 
who  had  heard  them  coming,  gathered  up  her  book — her 
Italian  book,  Winterbourne  saw  with  a  pang  of  love  for  her 
dutifulness  —  and  was  about  to  leave  them. 

"Call  your  sister,"  Winterbourne  bade  her. 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  sudden  apprehension,  he  thought, 
but  she  went,  and  he  heard  her  on  the  stairs.  Winterbourne 
drew  forth  a  chair  for  Gregory,  but  Tim,  left  standing,  put 
his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  whistled  until  Winterbourne's 
frown  seemed  to  him  too  thunderous,  and  he  stopped.  It  was 
a  moment  before  Celia  came,  Bess  following.  Celia  was  pale, 
Winterbourne,  in  his  stern-eyed  questioning,  saw,  but  she 
met  his  gaze  candidly.  Bess,  behind  her,  leaned  against  the 
casing  of  the  door,  and  Winterbourne  saw  she  was  shaking 


382      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

and  that  her  hands,  entwining  upon  each  other,  would  not 
be  still.  That  caused  him  to  speak  gently. 

"  Celia,  have  you  got  my  ear-trumpet  ?  " 

Celia  looked  at  him  in  a  sympathetic  questioning.  Had  he 
lost  something  it  seemed  to  say,  something  he  cared  very 
much  about? 

"  No,  papa,"  said  she. 

Winterbourne,when  the  occasion  was  big  enough,  felt  no 
rages.  The  present  one  was  very  big,  he  saw,  judging  from 
the  look  on  the  face  of  Bess;  and  his  blood  cooled.  He 
seemed  to  see,  too,  with  a  great  liking  for  Gregory,  that  this 
was  why  Gregory  now  stayed  out  of  it.  Though  with  the 
trumpet  in  his  pocket,  he  was  outside  family  affairs. 

"Think  again,  Celia,"  said  Winterbourne.  "  I  have  found 
one  of  them.  That 's  the  one  that  should  have  been  in  the 
desk.  Where  's  the  other  ?  " 

Then  the  irony  of  the  puissance  of  small  things  came  over 
him,  and  but  for  Bess  and  the  anguish  of  her  face  he  could 
have  laughed.  The  theft  of  an  ear-trumpet !  and  here  they 
were  standing  about  in  search  of  the  malefactor.  Celia  was 
looking  straight  at  him.  At  least,  he  thought  in  admiration, 
she  was  game.  Then  she  glanced  at  Tim,  and  her  lip 
curled. 

"  I  know  where  it  is,  papa,"  she  said.  "It's  upstairs." 

"Get  it,"  said  Winterbourne,  and  Celia  composedly  turned 
about,  passed  her  sister  without  a  glance,  and  went  up  the 
stairs. 

"  Bess,"  said  Winterbourne  kindly,  "  don't  you  think 
you'd  better  go  to  my  wife  ?  She  might  want  something." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  then,  in  a  moment,  Celia  came, 
the  trumpet  in  her  hand.  At  sight  of  it,  Gregory's  eyes 
lighted  with  a  passion  of  fervor.  They  seemed  to  say,  "  So 
there's  another  one." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      383 

Celia  gave  the  trumpet  to  Winterbourne  with  a  dutiful 
grace. 

"  Did  you  want  to  see  me  ?  "  she  hesitated. 

"  No,"  said  Winterbourne,  "I  did  n't  want  to  see  you." 

And  again  she  left  the  room  and  went  up  the  stairs.  Win 
terbourne  stood  for  a  moment,  thinking.  Then  he  walked 
to  the  front  door  and  opened  the  screen  wide. 

Tim  followed  him,  good-natured,  acquiescent.  Nothing 
was  going  to  happen,  he  saw.  His  experience  was  that  among 
civilized  people  things  did  n't  happen. 

"That's  all,"  said  Winterbourne.  "You  can  go." 

The  screen  closed  behind  him,  but  Mrs.  Ramsay,  clothed 
in  her  street  dress  and  ready  to  come  down,  had  heard,  and 
slipped  back  to  her  own  room.  There  was  a  stranger  below, 
she  knew.  She  would  wait.  Winterbourne  turned. 

"Now!  "  said  he,  and  Gregory,  in  an  understanding  of  the 
crisis,  drew  out  the  trumpet  in  hiding.  He  took  his  chair 
again  and  Winterbourne  pulled  out  another.  The  little  table 
where  Theocritus  lay  was  between  them,  and  on  it  Winter- 
bourne  laid  down  his  trumpet  as  if  it  were  a  game  of  cards 
and  he  was  showing  his  hand. 

"  That  the  boy  ?  "  he  asked. 

Gregory  nodded.   He  had  his  question  ready. 

"  Relative  of  yours  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Name  Winterbourne?" 

"  No." 

"What  is  his  name?  " 

"  Ramsay." 

"Not  Ramsay's  boy  ?  Not  our  Mr.  Ramsay?" 

Winterbourne  nodded. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Gregory.  He  sat  in  a  muse,  his  eyes 
absently  on  the  twin  trumpet.  "  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  'm  sorry. 


384      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

I'm  most  infernally  sorry  for  Ramsay.  He's  an  invaluable 
man." 

"  Now,"  said  Winterbourne,  "  how  was  it?" 

This  was  business,  and  Gregory  at  once  became  the  busi 
ness  man.  He  told  succinctly  how  Tim  had  come,  acting  like 
a  fool  so  far  as  the  practical  aspect  of  the  thing  went,  but 
clever,  oh,  yes  !  bright  in  his  talk  as  well  as  being  a  fool.  And 
Gregory  had  not,  he  owned,  gone  into  it  really.  For  as  soon 
as  the  thing  met  his  ear,  he  had  been  bewitched,  and  he  had 
no  desire  save  to  get  it  into  his  own  private  keeping  for  a  day, 
an  hour.  Then,  he  had  believed,  he  could  look  into  it,  or 
hand  it  over  to  a  man  who  would  understand  it,  from  within. 
But  he  had  known  underneath  that  he  could  n't  hand  it  over 
to  anybody.  All  he  really  wanted  was  to  get  rid  of  Tim, 
inventor  or  no,  unplumbed,  hug  his  treasure  to  his  breast, 
and  embark  on  the  wave  of  glorious  living.  He  was  a  crim 
inal,  Gregory  owned,  but  he  offered  it  with  a  smile  because, 
pan-pipes  at  his  ear,  he  knew  he  should  hear  what  Winter- 
bourne  had  to  say  in  turn.  What  it  was  made  no  difference 
in  his  sum  of  happiness.  The  human  tongue  now  might  ap 
prove  or  revile  him ;  at  least  he  should  have  the  ecstasy  of 
that  communion. 

But  Winterbourne  was  looking  at  him  in  almost  a  melt 
ing  interest.  He  had,  the  confession  told  him,  made  a  man. 
He  had  topped  a  creature  with  a  sense  the  law  of  life  had 
taken  away. 

"  Don't  worry  yourself,  my  friend,"  said  he.  "  I  can  make 
you  a  million  just  like  this.  You  shall  never  be  without  it. 
I  '11  give  you  the  drawing  this  day." 

"You  invented  it  yourself?"  Gregory  said,  looking  at 
him  in  an  adoring  gratitude  ludicrous  from  those  eyes. 

"Yes,  I  invented  it." 

"  It's  never  been  patented?  " 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      385 

"No.  I 've  been  too  lazy,  man.  I  Ve  been  too  lazy.  I  never 
thought  —  "  He  paused  and  ran  back  over  his  forgetfulness 
of  it. 

"  What  ? " 

Gregory  so  loved  to  hear  the  human  voice  that  he  could 
have  begged  it  to  go  on  indefinitely.  Winterbourne  answered 
slowly, — 

"  I  never  thought  what  I  was  keeping  them  out  of,  the 
people  that  could  n't  hear.  God  forgive  me  !  I  Ve  let  them 
perish  in  their  silence." 

To  do  something  for  them  had  brought  him  nearer  them. 
For  an  instant  he  thought  with  passion,  not  of  his  old  with 
drawals,  but  the  approach  to  men  if  he  could  go,  pan-pipes 
in  hand,  and  open  their  ears  for  them.  "  I  have  n't  remem 
bered  it  for  years,"  he  said,  "except  when  somebody's  ap 
pealed  to  me.  But  God  forgive  me !  I  thought  of  it  this 
forenoon  because  I  wanted  to  get  some  money  out  of  it." 

"  You  can  get  some  money  out  of  it,"  Gregory  assured 
him  briefly. 

cc  Not  too  much,"  Winterbourne  held  him  back.  "  Not 
too  much.  Let  'em  pick  it  off  every  tree."  Then  he  be 
thought  him  that  it  would  be  dinner-time  presently  and  Bess 
would  have  to  feed  them,  if  they  sat  there.  "  I  '11  tell  you 
what  we'll  do,"  said  he.  "I  can't  ask  you  to  my  table  be 
cause  we're  short  of  help.  But  there's  a  little  tavern  a  mile 
along  the  road,  and  there  we'll  eat.  And  I  '11  take  a  roll  of 
paper  and  a  pencil  in  my  pocket  and  I  '11  put  the  inside  of 
pan-pipes  before  you,  and  you'll  see  it's  no  such  hard  mat 
ter  to  make  a  man  hear." 

Bess  saw  them  walking  away  together  down  the  street. 
Gregory,  the  trumpet  at  his  ear,  was  looking  up  and  listen 
ing  with  devoted  interest,  and  Winterbourne,  from  the  wag 
ging  of  his  head,  was  rolling  out  a  monologue. 


XXX 

CELIA  was  locked  in  her  room.  Bess  did  not  know 
whether  she  had  eaten  any  dinner  at  all,  but  after  she 
had  knocked  two  or  three  times  at  intervals  and  been 
told  to  go  away,  she  had  to  see  that  her  patients  were  fed, 
and  went  about  that  in  a  preoccupied  haste,  her  mind  heavily 
upon  Celia.  Mrs.  Ramsay  she  found  in  a  state  of  majestic 
insubordination.  She  had  her  clothes  on,  and  she  stated  that 
she  must  see  Mr.  Winterbourne  at  once.  She  had  thought 
of  the  word  she  wanted  to  say  to  him  all  these  weeks,  and 
she  could  pronounce  it  perfectly.  She  wanted  to  see  him  and 
also  she  wished  to  see  her  son. 

"Tony?"  Bess  inquired,  knowing  how  assuaging  Tony 
had  been  in  the  maternal  arms  of  late. 

But  it  was  not  Tony.  It  was  Tim.  Mrs.  Ramsay  said  this 
with  a  compression  of  the  lips  befitting  the  Spartan  mother. 
Tim,  most  evidently,  was  to  be  dealt  with.  Catherine 
also  had  been  to  Celia's  door,  and  once,  on  a  return  from 
this  fruitless  pilgrimage  with  a  face  of  woe,  she  met  Bess. 
She  whispered .  portentously,  in  her  way  of  regarding  Celia 
as  a  creature  pathologically  undone,  and  Bess  had  a  sudden 
sense  of  outrage  that  Catherine  should  know  her  darling  had 
been  so  put  to  shame. 

"  Bess,"  Catherine  whispered,  "  you  must  deal  with  her. 
I  haven't  the  strength." 

In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  Celia  set  her  door  ajar,  and 
Bess,  watching  for  it,  knocked  timidly.  Celia  bade  her  come 
in,  composedly  enough,  and  Bess  entered  and  locked  the 
door  behind  her.  Celia,  dressed  very  carefully  in  an  out-door 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      387 

gown,  sat  by  the  window,  doing  nothing.  Her  room  had  al 
most  an  austere  aspect  of  tidiness.  She  seemed  to  have  been 
putting  away  the  trifles  that  ordinarily  had  place  on  her  bu 
reau  and  her  table.  Bess  dared  not  look  her  in  the  face.  Celia 
had  done  even  childishly  wrong,  and  they  both  felt  the  shame 
of  it.  But  she  started  at  her  sister's  voice.  It  was  hard  in  a 
way  that  indicated  anticipation  of  a  serious,  not  a  trifling 
moment. 

"  Why  do  you  do  that  ?  "  Celia  was  asking  her. 

"  What  ?  " 

"  Lock  the  door." 

"  I  did  n't  want  her  to  come  in,"  Bess  answered  simply. 

Then  she  went  forward  and,  without  premeditation,  sank 
on  the  floor,  laid  her  arms  upon  her  sister's  knees,  and  put 
her  head  down  on  them.  Expressed  emotion  was  the  rarest 
thing  with  her.  She  could  look  it  in  a  still,  warm  way,  but 
its  outspoken  language  she  seemed  never  to  have  learned. 
To  Celia,  gazing  down  at  her,  the  brown  head  with  its  beauti 
ful  hair,  the  abandon  of  the  strong  shoulders,  it  seemed  as 
if  she  had  never  loved  her  sister  so  terribly,  with  such  an 
ache,  such  a  sense  of  isolation  with  her,  as  if  they  two  were 
clinging  together  in  a  world  unfriendly  to  them.  But  she 
said,  in  the  same  hard  voice,  — 

"What  are  you  doing  that  for?  Get  up  and  sit  in  a 
chair." 

Bess  did  get  up,  her  hands  fruitlessly  to  her  face,  to  cover 
it  from  tears.  She  was  crying  in  a  silent  way,  and  Celia  looked 
at  her  quietly  and  loved  her  and  wanted  to  hurt  her  because 
she  cried. 

"  We  must  go  away,  dear,"  Bess  said,  as  soon  as  she  could 
speak.  "  I  Ve  been  thinking  about  it  all  the  afternoon." 

"Where?"  Celia  asked  it  coldly,  without  real  interest. 

"  I  don't  know  yet.  I  Ve  been  thinking.  We  could  do 


388      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

one  thing  anyway."  She  looked  at  Celia  now  timidly,  know 
ing  how  she  would  take  it.  "  We  could  go  back  to  the 
tavern." 

"Where  you  worked?  " 

"  Yes."  She  took  a  little  sip  of  courage  at  being  even 
hearkened  to.  "  I  could  do  the  cooking.  They  'd  take  me  on 
again.  They'd  be  glad — and  you  could  board."  Celia  was 
looking  at  her  with  an  unmoved  face,  and  Bess  plucked  up 
heart  to  continue.  "  Mrs.  Ramsay  won't  stay  long.  She  's 
fretting  about  her  children.  I  've  seen  it.  Maybe  she  'd  be 
better  at  home.  She  could  do  a  little  here  and  there  and  not 
think  so  much  about  herself." 

"  You  want  to  get  back,"  said  Celia  bitterly. 

"I  ?" 

"  Yes.  You  're  homesick  for  the  tavern,  the  boarders,  your 
work." 

The  last  word  was  hard  to  utter.  It  projected  an  infini 
tude  of  servile  tasks,  and  Bess,  even,  was  abhorrent  to  her 
for  the  moment  because  she  could  endure  them.  Bess  sat 
now  regardless  of  covering  her  tear-stained  face,  hands  clasped 
about  her  knees,  looking  sadly  past  her  sister. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  no.  I  'd  done  with  the  place  pretty 
soon  after  you  took  me  away  from  it.  I  don't  want  to  go 
back  to  it.  But  it 's  the  only  place  there  is." 

A  momentary  curiosity  qualified  Celia's  look. 

"  What  do  you  like  ? "  she  asked.  "  Where  do  you  want 
to  stay  ?  " 

A  soft  radiance  beamed  from  Bess.  It  made  her  face  into 
a  glowing  wonder. 

"  Here,"  she  said  softly,  as  if  to  her  inner  mind.  "  Oh, 
there 's  no  place  like  here." 

"This  house?" 

"This  house,  this  town." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      389 

She  looked  like  a  creature  fallen  in  love,  but  Celia,  study 
ing  her,  judged  that  it  must  be,  incredible  as  it  seemed,  with 
the  place.  Bess  was  thinking  only  of  Winterbourne,  how  kind 
he  was,  how  safe  everything  was  with  him,  the  smallest  and 
the  biggest,  because  he  was  just  kind  and  allowed  you  to  be 
free.  Celia's  face  had  hardened  again  from  its  momentary 
breaking. 

"Then  what  do  you  want  to  go  away  for?"  she  asked. 

"We  must,"  said  Bess.  The  look  of  grief  had  come 
again.  "  We  've  done  —  "  She  stopped,  and  Celia  went  on 
for  her,  — 

"Don't  say  we've  done.  We  haven't  done  anything. 
I  Ve  told  lies,  you  mean." 

Bess,  tongue-tied  by  nature,  found  it  impossible  to  show 
her  that  with  the  tie  between  them  and  the  love  between 
them,  their  loneliness  of  kin,  the  sin  of  one  was  the  other's 
sin  also,  and  they  must  stand  or  fall  together. 

"And  what  about?"  said  Celia,  in  scorn.  "An  ear- 
trumpet  !  I  said  I  had  n't  it  when  I  had.  An  ear-trumpet 
was  not  to  be  found  for  half  an  hour  when  nobody  particu 
larly  wanted  it,  and  I  was  asked  if  I  had  it,  and  I  said 
no." 

In  the  confusion  of  her  mind,  the  strain  of  her  anger, 
and  because  she  needed  food,  it  was  all  unmeasured  folly 
to  her.  It  seemed  foolish  that  Tim  had  wanted  it,  foolish 
in  her  to  have  taken  it  for  him,  to  have  denied  she  had  it. 
The  thought  uppermost  in  her  mind  was  that  Tim  was  a 
fool,  and  he  had  been  allowed  by  a  silly  destiny  to  bring 
about  this  upheaval.  She  was  angry  to  the  bottom  of  her 
consciousness.  That  she  could  not  altogether  have  ex 
plained.  But  the  world  seemed  now  her  enemy.  Bess  was 
speaking  at  last.  She  had  thought  of  some  things  so  long 
that  now  they  came  fluently. 


390      JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  It  is  n't  what  we  've  done  to-day.   It 's  all  that  led  to  it." 

"Led  to  what?    Mislaying  an  ear-trumpet?" 

Bess  looked  at  her  in  an  agony.  She  wished  Cclia  would 
understand  and  she  need  not  say  it. 

"  Why,  we  owe  them  everything,"  she  said.  "  They 
brought  you  up." 

Celia's  face  seemed  to  harden  again. 

"Well,"  she  returned.  "What  then?" 

Bess  had  it  all  thought  out. 

"They've  been  so  square  with  us.  They  Ve  made  you 
a  lady.  Just  think,  Celia,  you  're  a  lady."  She  spoke  as  if 
the  word  even  were  incredible. 

"  Don't  say  I  'm  a  lady  in  that  tone,"  Celia  bade  her 
harshly,  "  as  if  it  was  so  astonishing  to  be  a  lady.  Are  n't 
you  a  lady?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Bess,  with  a  perfect  simplicity.  "  I  can't 
even  speak  good  grammar.  I  Ve  worked  too  hard.  But 
you  're  a  lady,  Celia.  Oh,  you  're  lovely  !  " 

She  rocked  back  and  forth  in  an  ecstasy  of  pity  and  ad 
miration,  and  sorrow  over  the  mischance  that  had  made  her 
sister  look  so  soiled  to  her.  Celia  was  plucking  up  a  little 
spirit.  Somebody  still  admired  her,  it  appeared,  and  on 
that  she  could  thrive  meagrely.  Blame  seemed  to  slay  her. 
But  Bess. knocked  down  the  fair  fabric  she  had  erected. 

"And  it's  all  no  good,"  she  said,  "no  good.  If  we  do 
things  like  that,  we  're  low  and  mean.  I  wish  we  'd  died 
before  it." 

"Things  like  what?    Saying  things — " 

Bess  nodded,  not  looking  at  her. 

"  Saying  they  're  so  when  they  're  not.  Mother  would  n't 
have  done  it,"  she  grieved.  "The  way  the  old  woman 
spoke  of  her!  She  was  sweet.  Father  wouldn't  have  done 
it,  either." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      391 

"Why  do  you  say  he  wouldn't?  What  do  we  know 
about  him  ? " 

Bess  put  up  her  head  a  little  in  Celia's  own  way. 

"  We  know  one  thing.  The  folks  there  told  me.  There 
was  a  little  bound  girl,  and  the  family  that  had  her  did  n't 
treat  her  well,  and  the  neighbors  did  n't  dare  to  make  any  fuss 
about  it  because  they  were  afraid  the  man  would  burn  their 
barns.  But  father  did  it.  He  had  it  brought  into  court, 
and  he  stood  up  and  faced  it.  I  know  that  about  him." 

"Well,"  said  Celia.  Then  she  laughed  a  little,  but  there 
was  no  mirth  in  it.  "  So  I  'm  the  black  sheep.  I  am  a  dis 
grace  to  you." 

Bess  wrung  her  hands  in  a  spontaneous  action  of  grief. 

"  How  can  you  ! "  she  said.  "  You  are  the  prettiest  —  the 
dearest  —  it 's  only  because  you  must  n't,  Celia,  you  must  n't 
say  what  is  n't  true." 

Celia  suddenly  looked  sick  and  pale.  She  had  resolved 
to  eat  no  more  in  that  house;  but  her  healthy  young  body 
cried  for  food.  Yet  what  could  she  do?  If  she  went  away, 
as  she  intended  doing,  it  was  her  enemy's  money  she  must 
go  on.  But  that,  she  reflected,  in  another  moment,  could 
be  paid  back.  The  food  also  might  be,  in  some  fashion. 

"Could  I  have  a  glass  of  milk?"  she  asked  humbly,  and 
Bess  gave  a  little  cry,  the  articulate  sound  a  mother  might 
make  in  hastening  to  her  young. 

"  I  '11  bring  it  to  you  here,"  she  said,  and  hurried  out. 

Celia  made  no  objection  to  that.  It  was  too  hard,  she 
knew,  to  leave  the  room  and  meet  Catherine's  insistent 
eyes.  Bess  came  back  with  her  kind  little  tray,  and  Celia 
ate,  hungrily  and  with  a  careful  determination  to  prime  her 
self  for  action. 

"There,"  said  she  at  the  end,  "  run  away  now.  I  'm  going 
out.  I  'm  going  to  walk  a  little.  When  I  come  back  —  "  but 


392      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

there  she  stopped.  It  was  suddenly  evident  to  her  that  she 
was  going  to  lie  again. 

"Couldn't  I  go  with  you?"  Bess  had  hesitated. 

"  No.    I  want  to  think." 

Was  that,  too,  a  lie?  she  wondered  suddenly.  Her  mind 
was  beginning  to  torment  her. 

Bess  went  heavily  away  down  the  stairs,  and  Celia,  listen 
ing,  heard  her  going  on  to  the  kitchen  with  her  tray.  Celia 
pinned  on  her  hat  hastily  and  took  her  little  bag.  After  a 
moment's  listening  she  slipped  down  the  front  stairs  and 
noiselessly  out  at  the  door.  Walking  down  the  path  and 
along  the  street,  she  felt  with  a  sick  heart  that  something 
dreadful  in  its  definiteness  had  been  done.  She  had  taken 
upon  herself  exile  from  Bess,  who  had  not  cast  her  off,  but 
from  whom  she  had  parted  when  it  was  evident  that  her 
sister  was  ashamed  of  her.  And  hurrying  on,  her  head  held 
high  to  meet  the  bright  day  before  which  she  was  deter 
mined  to  own  no  shame,  she  saw  Lovell  coming,  driving  fast, 
with  his  hat  off,  and  that  alert,  delighted  look  she  called  to 
his  face  already  overspreading  it.  She  would  have  passed 
him,  but  he  had  driven  to  the  curb. 

"  Can't  I  take  you  somewhere?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head,  essaying  a  smile.  He  was  out  of  the 
wagon  and  beside  her. 

"What  is  it,  Celia?  "  he  was  asking  warmly. 

Celia  felt  her  eyes  rilling  with  tears.  He  seemed,  by  his 
admiring  love,  to  be  reinstating  her  on  old  grounds.  He,  at 
least,  did  not  find  her  a  disgrace. 

"I'm  going  away,"  she  said. 

"  Where  ?  " 

"To  Boston." 

"  When  are  you  coming  back  ? " 

"  I  'm  not  coming." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      393 

"Celia!" 

The  sun,  she  saw,  would  fail  out  of  his  heaven.  She  nodded 
over  her  shoulder  at  the  house. 

"  I  have  left  them." 

Lovell  stood  still  a  moment,  enraged  she  found  with  what 
must  have  been  her  wrongs,  and  that  consoled  her  slightly. 

"  Get  in,"  he  said  then.  "We'll  drive  a  little,  and  I  '11  take 
you  to  the  station  if  you  've  got  to  go." 

It  was  a  tone  she  felt  obliged  to  hear,  and  she  stepped  into 
the  wagon,  he  following  her.  They  went  rather  fast  until 
they  were  out  of  the  street,  and  Lovell  turned  into  a  leafy 
road  skirting  the  back  of  the  station  and  drew  the  horse  to 
a  walk. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "what  is  it?" 

She  felt  uneasily  that  she  had  never  heard  this  tone  in 
him.  He  had  been  the  suppliant  bringing  tribute  to  his  dear. 
This  almost  made  it  seem  as  if  here  was  some  one  else  to 
reckon  with.  Something  must  be  said,  and  she  offered 
weakly,  — 

"They  are  not  to  blame." 

"  You  don't  mean  they  've  turned  you  out  ? " 

"  I  chose  to  go." 

"  Not  Winterbourne  —  Winterbourne  would  n't  do  a  thing 
like  that." 

"  They  don't  know  I  am  going.  I  decided  upon  it  my 
self." 

"Your  sister?   Is  she  going?  " 

"  No.    Bess  is  n't  going." 

"  What  does  this  mean,  Celia  ?  "  said  Lovell,  in  a  tone  of 
resolution.  "  You  've  got  to  tell  me." 

How  could  she  tell  him  ?  Could  she  say,  "  I  said  I  had  n't 
an  ear-trumpet  when  I  had?"  The  puerile  folly  of  it.  He  would 
lift  his  face  to  heaven  and  laugh  with  an  uncontrolled  shout- 


394      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

ing  like  Winterbourne's  own.  But  the  ear-trumpet  was  not 
it.  That  was  the  last  silly  cue  that  brought  on  all  the  other 
tragedy  about  her,  Catherine's  sickened  looks  and  that  un 
bearable  sad  plea  from  Bess.  It  was  what  had  gone  before.  It 
was  the  ill  way  they  evidently  believed  her  life  was  tending. 

"  I  am  not  what  they  thought,"  she  said,  and  it  sounded 
as  if  she  said  it  haughtily. 

Lovell  looked  upon  her  frowningly,  wondering,  she  saw, 
not  in  the  least  intending  to  accept  anything  less  than  the 
clean  fact. 

"  But  that's  ridiculous,"  said  he.  "  They  Ve  known  you  all 
your  life.  People  don't  turn  us  out  for  sentimental  reasons. 
Guess  again  ! " 

He  was  laughing,  and  the  bright  day  made  it  seem  for 
the  moment  as  if  she  might  at  least  smile  a  little ;  but  the 
thought  of  Bess  and  her  grief  dried  her  throat  anew. 

"  I  'm  going  to  see  Winterbourne  about  this,"  he  said,  with 
energy.  "  It 's  a  fancy  you  Ve  got  up.  I  never  heard  of  any 
thing  more  intangible." 

"  No,"  said  Celia.  "  It 's  not  intangible.  It 's  true.  I  'm  go 
ing  away,  and  if  you  see  Mr.  Winterbourne,  if  you  see  any 
of  them  to  talk  about  it,  I  shall  go  away  from  you." 

"Then,"  said  Lovell,  "if  you  are  going  away,  you  must 
come  to  me.  We  must  be  married  now,  short  off.  The  house 
is  n't  begun  even,  but  you  could  wait  for  that.  You  could  stand 
my  little  shanty,  knowing  you  were  going  to  have  the  other." 

He  was  the  adoring  lover.  Her  heart  gave  a  cry  of  tri 
umph.  She  must  seem  to  him  very  nice  indeed.  In  that  light  he 
looked  very  nice  to  her,  a  companion,  a  vindicator.  But  was 
it  true,  her  brooding  mind  insisted  on  putting  in  here,  that 
she  could  claim  vindication  ?  Or  was  she  what  Bess  thought 
her?  Pondering  it,  she  answered  absently, — 

"No,  not  that." 


JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      395 

"Not  that?  It's  the  only  thing.  What  are  you  going  to 
do  in  Boston  ?  " 

She  did  not  know. 

"  Have  you  any  money  ?  "  He  asked  it  as  if  it  were  the 
most  ordinary  thing  to  ask,  with  a  simplicity  that  made  it 
delicate. 

"  A  little." 

"A  little  won't  do.  You  must  let  me  give  you  some." 

"No!  no!" 

That,  he  saw,  was  definite,  and  it  settled  the  case  for 
him. 

"  Then  you  will  stay  here.  You  will  let  me  drive  you 
back  home,  and  you  will  be  ready  to-morrow  morning  and 
I  '11  come  and  marry  you." 

"  Why,  no  !  "  she  said,  "  why,  no !  " 

"Yes.  Have  your  hat  on,  dearest,  and  we  '11  walk  out  of 
the  house  after  it  's  over.  I  '11  ask  no  questions  either  of  you 
or  the  family.  It's  a  complication — a  misunderstanding  — 
some  folly,  I  haven't  a  doubt;  but  we  must  tackle  it  and 
ignore  it  and  live  it  down.  And  I  'm  the  gainer,  if  it  drives 
you  to  me." 

His  very  air  was  of  gay  certainties.  This  was  what  life  had 
done  for  him.  He  had  had  his  own  complications  to  live  down 
and  had  done  it  in  the  wrong  way,  so  retrospect  declared. 
He  would  never  be  again  on  the  craven's  side. 

"  No,"  said  Celia,  "  no." 

"  I  shall  come,"  he  asserted,  "  at  ten  to-morrow.  You  will 
be  ready  for  me." 

"  I  can't  be  married  in  that  house,"  she  flung  out  desper 
ately. 

He  considered.  Courting  lads  and  lasses  were  always 
driving  or  walking  away  to  the  minister  and  coming  home 
man  and  wife.  It  was  conformable  enough  to  the  standard 


396      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

of  Clyde.  But  for  his  only  and  unapproached  lady  it  would 
not  do.  She  must  have  the  sanction  of  roofs  and  covenants. 

"  Yes/'  said  he,  "  you  must  be  ready  for  me  at  ten.  I 
shall  be  there." 

Celia  felt,  with  a  mingling  of  terror  and  surprise,  that  she 
had  never  been  faced  by  a  will  so  strong.  Lovell  himself 
was  riding  bareback  on  the  joy  of  dominating  circumstance. 
No  more  Theocritus  for  him  until  the  hand  of  age  began  to 
press  him  down,  inch  by  gentle  inch.  This  was  life,  life.  He 
turned,  and  they  drove  slowly  back  again,  past  the  station, 
and  Celia  saw  she  was  not  to  go.  She  hardly  knew  what  she 
wished.  The  sheer  passion  of  an  hour  before,  when  anger 
was  the  spur  to  action,  had  gone,  and  she  knew,  if  she  threw 
herself  capriciously  out  into  the  world,  there  was  nothing  for 
her  to  do  there. 

"Will  you  — "  she  began.  They  were  nearing  Winter- 
bourne's  again,  and  her  teeth  seemed  to  shut  convulsively 
upon  the  words  — "  will  you  —  if  I  do  it,  will  you  be  good  to 
my  sister  ?  Will  you  let  her  come  to  me  ?  " 

He  looked  round  at  her. 

"Good  to  your  sister?  How  can  you  ask  me?  She  shall 
live  with  you.  I  shan't  rule  you,  dear.  I  'm  ruling  you  now 
because  it's  best  —  but  not  after." 

He  got  out  and  held  up  his  hands  to  her.  But  she  did 
not  move,  and  he  saw  she  looked  most  miserable.  Her  eyes 
were  interrogating  his.  Bess  had  come  to  the  door,  and  stood 
there  awaiting  them.  Celia  knew  that,  and  something  in  Bess 
seemed  to  constrain  her  in  what  she  had  to  say:  — 

"  If  I  should  tell  you  what  the  trouble  was,  you  would  n't 
—  want  me." 

Lovell  felt  surprise,  uneasiness  at  the  pain  she  was  un 
dergoing,  but  he  forbade  his  eyes  to  flinch. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  I  should  want  you  whatever  it  was." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      397 

"  If  it  was  my  fault  —  "  she  began,  as  if  she  were  making 
dreary  confession  before  Bess,  who  stood  on  the  steps  un 
consciously  impelling  her. 

"  If  it  was  your  fault.  Come,  jump  out.  I  Ve  got  a  lot  to 
do  before  to-morrow." 

"  If  I  were  a  person  to  disgrace  you  — " 

"Jump  out,"  he  bade  her  even  gayly  now.  "You  and  I 
aren't  going  to  talk  this  over.  We're  going  to  begin  to  live. 
There  's  a  new  world  created,  and  it 's  ours." 

There  spoke  the  poet  in  him,  irrepressibly,  though  he  had 
bade  himself  now  take  every  exigency  like  a  man  only  be 
cause  nothing  was  better  than  to  be  a  man. 

Celia  did  step  down  from  the  wagon,  and  not  seeing,  went 
up  the  path  where  Bess  awaited  her,  and  Lovell  turned 
away.  He  drove  rapidly  now,  and  to  Celia's  hearing  the  sound 
was  of  a  part  with  his  peremptory  words.  Bess  came  down 
a  step  to  meet  her  and  touched  her  dress  humbly,  as  if  she 
must  make  sure  of  her  and  dared  not  offer  a  caress. 

"  I  was  afraid,"  she  said.  "  I  saw  your  little  bag  was  gone." 

Celia's  harshness  toward  her  —  the  harshness  of  hurt  love 
—  was  melted.  She  felt  gentle  and  very  tired,  and  it  was 
restful  to  her  to  have  escaped  that  surge  of  passions. 

"  Come  upstairs,"  she  said.  "  I  Ve  got  to  talk  to  you." 

In  her  own  room,  while  Bess  waited,  eager  to  do  a  service, 
she  languidly  took  off  her  hat  and  gloves,  and  then  turned 
to  regard  her  sister.  She  did  not  want  to  sit.  That  seemed 
to  begin  an  interview  from  which  she  might  not  easily  es 
cape. 

"  Bess,"  she  said,  "  Mr.  Lovell  is  coming  here  to-morrow. 
He  is  going  to  marry  me." 

Bess  looked  at  her  a  moment. 

"Sit  down,  dear,"  she  said  then,  soothingly.  "No,  you 
lie  down.  You  're  all  tired  out." 


398       JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

Celia  saw  she  had  not  understood.  But  she  could  not 
argue  it. 

"It  will  be  at  ten,"  she  said  drearily.  "  Could  you  help 
me  drag  in  my  trunks  from  the  back  hall  ?  I  must  do  my 
packing." 

Now  Bess  believed  it,  but  she  was  confounded  by  the 
pace  the  world  was  making. 

"Celia,"  she  implored,  "what  is  it?  What's  set  you  off 
to  do  a  thing  like  that  ?  O  Celia,  not  to  get  away  from 
here  ? " 

Celia  felt  that  the  way  to  attain  silence  was  to  give  a  rea 
son.  It  was  impossible  to  enter  into  talk. 

"  We  have  been  engaged  to  be  married  for  — "  She  was 
about  to  say  "  for  a  long  time,"  and  then  that  frightened 
consciousness  told  her  here  were  lies  again.  "  We  are  to  be 
married,"  she  ended.  "  Come,  let 's  get  the  trunks." 

There  was  no  way  but  to  agree.  She  was  keyed  to  a  point 
where  she  could  have  dragged  them  in  alone,  and  Bess 
helped  her,  working  noiselessly,  and  then  stood  by  in  frozen 
misery  while  Celia  folded  delicate  things  and  packed  them 
with  a  care.  It  was  not  the  part  of  Bess  to  dally  while  work 
went  on,  and  presently  she  too  began  folding  and  laying 
cleverly.  The  task  was  an  anguish  to  her.  She  had  some 
times  thought,  in  a  shy,  hidden  way,  of  Celia's  marrying. 
Celia  was  so  beautiful  that  the  most  wonderful  lot  of  all 
seemed  decreed  for  her,  and  now  here  the  dewy  moment  had 
come  and  they  were  making  ready  for  it  as  if  destiny  were 
behind.  But  she  could  not  speak.  Once  the  tears  came,  but 
she  wiped  them  away  lest  they  touch  her  sister's  clothes 
and  make  an  omen.  When  they  had  finished  and  Celia 
shut  down  the  last  lid,  she  looked  at  Bess,  and  aware  of  the 
trouble  of  it  all,  yet  now  not  much  moved  by  it,  said  imperi 
ously,  though  in  a  quiet  way, — 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      399 

"  One  thing.  You  must  not  speak  of  it." 

"  Not  speak  of  it  ?  Not  to  her  ? " 

"No." 

"  But,  Celia,  I  must  speak  to  him." 

"  No.  If  they  are  here  when  I  go  downstairs,  they  can  be 
told.  They  can  be  there  if  they  like.  I  would  have  gone 
away,  but  — "  She  was  about  to  say  that  Lovell  had  for 
bidden  it,  but  she  could  not  use  his  name.  He  seemed  to 
belong  to  her  and  yet  was  alien  to  her.  "It  would  n't  be  fair 
to  them." 

"But  this  isn't  fair  to  them.  It's  their  house.  O  Celia, 
we  couldn't  use  it  so  and  not  tell  them." 

Celia  stood  a  moment  thinking  bitterly.  Was  this  another 
point,  her  outraged  vanity  asked  her,  where  she  was  dense 
to  the  propriety  of  life  ?  Was  Bess,  who  always  counselled 
the  unselfish  thing,  more  gently  bred  than  she? 

"  Very  well,"  she  said.  "  Tell  them  then.  But  don't  tell  her 
till  morning.  She  'd  have  things  to  eat.  She  'd  talk  with  me. 
And  tell  him  that.  Tell  him  I  won't  be  talked  to." 

Bess,  without  a  look  at  her,  because  she  seemed  to  herself 
now  to  have  helped  bring  this  incredible  destiny  about,  and 
she  would  plague  her  sister  no  more,  was  softly  going.  But 
Celia  came  after  her,  with  a  little  rush,  and  threw  passionate 
arms  about  her. 

"  You  can  live  with  me,"  she  whispered,  in  her  fierce  devo 
tion  to  the  tie  of  blood,  "  if  you  're  willing  to.  He  says  so." 

They  kissed,  and  Bess  dared  the  question  some  one,  she 
felt,  must  ask. 

"O  Celia,  do  you  like  him?  Enough,  Celia,  do  you  like 
him  well  enough  ? " 

"  You  're  to  live  with  me,"  Celia  threw  at  her.  "  There ! 
go,  and  I  '11  lie  down." 


XXXI 

WINTERBOURNE,  after  such  an  afternoon  in 
the  city  as  he  had  not  had  for  years,  and  loathed 
at  any  period  of  his  life,  came  home  agiow  all 
over  at  the  pleasure  of  it.  Gregory  had  insisted  on  dropping 
in  at  a  vaudeville  where  a  girl  with  a  sweet  voice  sang  a  top 
ical  song  charmingly.  Winterbourne  hated  topical  songs  and 
close  theatres,  but  it  seemed  to  him  he  could  spend  more 
time  than  that  in  alien  pursuits  at  Gregory's  side,  watching 
him  bathe  himself  in  life.  Then,  when  Gregory  could  escape 
the  seductions  of  the  world  of  sound,  they  retired  to  his 
library  in  the  quiet  house  whence  women-folk  had  fled  to 
the  country,  and  sat  down  at  a  table  for  a  stiff  business  talk, 
while  Winterbourne  drew  models  and  explained  and  learned 
to  know  the  promoter,  the  man  to  whom  affairs  were  an  open 
book.  The  upshot  of  it  was  that  Gregory  would  take  hold 
of  pan-pipes  and  disseminate  it  with  an  enthusiasm  to  make 
it  earn  its  way.  Winterbourne  liked  him.  There  was  some 
thing  that  tickled  his  sense  of  fun  in  Gregory's  babylike  de 
bauch  among  the  things  of  sense,  a  hard  nut  like  him. 

He  came  home  in  abounding  good-humor,  yet  bent  on 
one  task,  this  concerning  Tim.  He  would  have  been  pre 
pared  to  find  Bess  waiting  for  him  with  some  simple  comfort 
or  other,  or  even  Celia,  picturesquely  affectionate,  or  per 
haps  his  wife,  risen  from  her  bed  of  languor  to  resuscitate 
romance;  but  what  he  did  meet  knocked  him  into  an  unex 
pected  flurry.  He  entered  his  own  sitting-room  and  halted 
at  the  vision  there, —  Mrs.  Ramsay  clothed  in  her  perfect 
mind,  rather  majestic,  so  that  you  might  laugh  a  little  at  her 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      401 

if  you  would,  seeing  how  she  recalled  the  intellectual  ladies  of 
a  long-past  day,  the  tinge  of  old-fashioned  grandiosity,  but 
very  direct  and  purposeful. 

She  began  at  once.  She  had  been  waiting  for  him. 

"  Mr.  Winterbourne,  I  have  recovered  the  use  of  my 
speech." 

"  I  am  delighted,  Mrs.  Ramsay."  He  put  his  hat  and  stick 
away  —  he  was  a  more  careful  man  in  these  days,  having 
found  Bess  setting  his  confusions  in  order  —  and  sank  into 
his  chair.  "  You  Ve  had  a  nasty  time." 

"  During  my  stay,"  said  Mrs.  Ramsay,  in  her  careful  Eng 
lish,  "  for  which  I  shall  never  cease  to  be  grateful,  I  have 
been  endeavoring  to  make  a  certain  statement  to  you.  But 
my  tongue  would  not  serve  me.  Now  I  have  command  of 
it.  Mr.  Winterbourne,  my  son  Timothy  possessed  himself 
of  your  ear-trumpet.  He  —  stole  it." 

Winterbourne  felt  like  groaning.  He  had  come  home  at 
peace  with  all  the  world,  knowing  that  the  only  task  left  him 
was  castigating  Timothy  for  Timothy's  good,  and  here  was 
the  ear-trumpet  cropping  up  again.  But  he  rose  bravely  to 
the  assault. 

"  Don't  mention  it,  Mrs.  Ramsay.  I  '11  settle  that  with 
Tim  when  I  get  round  to  it." 

She  sat  majestically  and  now  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  Mr.  Winterbourne.  For  the  sake  of  Timothy  we 
must  go  into  it  very  thoroughly.  When  my  boy  told  me 
he  was  about  to  patent  an  invention,  I  thought  he  had  de 
vised  something  unaided.  Then  I  found  he  had  in  some 
way  possessed  himself  of —  something  that  belonged  to 
you." 

Winterbourne  remembered  the  day  in  the  arbor,  and 
thought  he  could  explain  the  way.  But  chiefly  was  he  anxious 
to  escape  more  parleying. 


402      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"It  doesn't  matter,  Mrs.  Ramsay,"  he  said  kindly. 

But  then  at  once  it  became  apparent  to  him  that  she  felt 
disgraced  in  her  child,  that  she  had  felt  it  all  these  weeks, 
and  that  she  was  suffering  with  shame,  and  his  heart  grew  at 
once  compassionate  toward  her;  she  seemed  to  him  some 
thing  to  be  protected,  like  one  of  her  own  children.  She  had 
passed  into  that  changed  estate  where  we  are,  because  we 
surfer,  again  like  little  children.  She  was  not  storming  bat 
tlements  now,  and  disturbing  his  ears  with  the  whanging  of 
her  steel  on  steel.  She  was  the  normal  woman,  and  he  could 
see  how  Ramsay  had  very  naturally  loved  her. 

"  Something,"  she  said,  "  must  be  done  for  my  son.  I  have 
not  spoken  to  his  father.  We  have  not  talked  about  the 
children  very  much." 

Immediately  he  saw  that  she,  absentee  as  she  had  been 
from  her  own  household,  had  wished  to  save  Ramsay,  also  an 
absentee,  to  the  end  that  he  should  pursue  his  figuring  in 
peace. 

"  You  are  a  man  of  the  world,"  she  continued.  "  Timothy 
has  tried  to  do  a  disgraceful  thing." 

"  The  reason  he  did  n't  do  it,"  Winterbourne  found  him 
self  saying  bluntly,  "  is  the  way  he  took  to  do  it.  The 
boy  —  "  he  was  ending,  "the  boy's  a  fool,"  but  he  quali 
fied,  "  The  boy  's  not  used  to  business." 

"No.  But  he  must  be  punished.  I  should  like  to  have 
you  prescribe  the  form  of  punishment.  I  should  wish  to 
know  you  had  administered  it." 

Winterbourne  nodded.  He  thought  of  his  stout  stick. 
That  seemed  to  fit  a  culprit  of  Tim's  calibre.  But  now 
he  was  getting  uneasy  with  this  majestic  lady,  whose  pose 
seemed  almost  to  cry  out  for  the  turban  of  Mrs.  Hannah 
More.  He  wished  she  would  go  to  bed. 

"All  right,  Mrs.  Ramsay,"  said  he.  "  I'll  see  to  Tim." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S    FAMILY      403 

She  rose.  He  saw  she  was  trembling,  and  knew  the  inter 
view  had  cost  her  something. 

"  I  cannot  express  my  gratitude  to  your  household,"  she 
was  saying.  "  As  for  that  sweet  girl  who  has  devoted  herself 
to  me,  I  shall  probably  never  be  able  to  repay  her  in  this 
world.  If  there  is  a  world  to  come,  as  I  am  fully  convinced, 
I  hope  she  will  there  be  recompensed.  I  shall  go  home  to 
morrow." 

Winterbourne's  heart  leaped  for  joy. 

"  Do  you  think  you  are  quite  able  ?  "  he  inquired  hypo 
critically. 

"I  am  rested,"  said  Mrs.  Ramsay,  "sufficiently  to  go  on. 
And  my  children  need  me." 

She  shook  hands  with  him  in  a  definitive  way,  and  Winter- 
bourne,  shuddering  at  the  possibilities  of  her,  rhetorical  and 
pugnacious,  watched  her  go.  And  then,  as  if  she  had  been 
waiting,  Bess  came  to  him  from  the  dining-room,  and  he  was 
horrified  at  the  change  in  her. 

"What  is  it,  child?  "  said  he. 

She  stopped  at  a  distance  from  him  and  drooped  her  head 
against  the  mantel,  holding  by  it  with  one  hand. 

"  Celia  is  going  to  be  married,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"to-morrow  morning.  She  and  Mr.  Lovell." 

Winterbourne  started  out  of  his  wonder.  He  thought  only 
of  Lovell,  and  in  the  instant  knew  how  undesirable  Celia 
seemed  to  him  because  he  felt  merely  that  Lovell  must  be 
saved. 

"  I  '11  go  down  and  see  him,"  said  he. 

"  No,"  said  Bess,  "  no."  She  said  it  quietly,  yet  he  was 
stayed  by  the  commandingness  of  it.  "Let  it  be  as  it  is.  If 
you  are  willing  to  have  her  married  here,  in  this  room,  — 
that  will  be  all  we  can  do." 

"  Does  my  wife  know  ?  " 


4o4      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  It  would  spoil  her  night.  I  thought  I  'd  tell  her  in  the 
morning." 

"  But  he  must  n't,"  Winterbourne  was  saying,  really  to 
himself,  "  he  must  n't  do  a  thing  like  that." 

"Please  let  them,"  said  Bess  simply. 

It  was  all  she  could  say.  It  was  evident  to  her  that  Celia 
must  go  on.  The  only  point  now  was  to  have  it  done  in  an 
ordered  calm.  Winterbourne  looked  at  her  a  while,  her  evi 
dent  grief,  her  drooping  pose,  and  yet  the  inflexibility  of  her 
when  she  had  made  up  her  mind. 

"  Bess,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  I  wish  you  had  n't  been 
dragged  into  all  this.  We  're  not  very  happy  here.  I  wish 
you  did  n't  have  to  grow  under  our  shadow." 

She  was  always  amazing  him.  Now  she  lifted  her  head,  and 
her  face  glowed  all  over  in  that  lovely  color. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  sorry,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  of  exquisite 
emotion.  "  I  'm  not.  I  'm  glad.  If  I  never  had  come,  I  never 
should  have  seen  you." 

As  he  looked  at  her,  she  seemed  to  him  the  most  sacred 
and  the  purest  thing  born  into  this  complex  life.  She  loved 
him.  She  was  devoted  to  him.  She  joyously  confessed  it ;  yet 
it  was  a  love  all  honor,  all  restraint.  He  doubted,  in  this  prob 
ing  of  its  meaning,  whether,  if  he  were  willing  to  sully  the 
spring  of  life  for  her,  it  could  even  be  turned  into  the  mud 
died  pool  of  desires  forbidden.  But  something  had  to  be  said, 
and  none  of  them  should  be  the  base  brood  of  sentiment 
gone  wrong. 

"You  had  to  come,  child,  did  n't  you?  "  he  said,  in  the 
kind  voice  she  loved.  "  You  had  to  help  us  out  of  the  holes 
we  were  in,  Mrs.  Ramsay  and  all." 

She  smiled  at  him,  and  for  the  moment  it  seemed  as  if  she 
had  forgotten  Celia. 

"Well,"  said  Winterbourne,  "you're  my  well-beloved 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      405 

daughter,  and  what  you  say  goes.  Celia  shall  be  married  in 
this  room,  and  I  '11  black  my  shoes  and  brush  my  hair.  And 
now  I  'm  going  out.  Don't  sit  up  for  me." 

Her  alarm  was  instantly  awake. 

"  You  're  not  going  to  Mr.  Lovell's  ?  " 

"No,  child.  I'm  going  to  see  Tim  Ramsay.  I've  got  an 
errand  to  him.  Good-night,  kid." 

"  Do  you  want  your  stick?  "  she  asked,  out  of  her  instinct 
of  service. 

"Yes,"  said  Winterbourne  grimly,  "  I  want  it  very  particu 
larly.  Good-night." 

When  he  was  gone,  Bess  looked  about  the  room  with  an 
incredulous  gaze,  as  if  a  thing  like  marriage  could  not  enter 
there  so  unannounced,  crowned,  and  to  the  music  of  heart 
beats.  Then  the  most  remarkable  thing  she  had  ever  known 
befell  her.  Dwight  Hunter,  in  his  best  clothes,  she  had  time 
to  notice,  opened  the  door,  came  in,  and  stood  there  waiting. 
He  was  very  handsome,  very  well  equipped  for  another  life 
than  sweeping  kitchens,  a  superb  young  man.  Hunter  had 
always  come  near  to  putting  himself  wrong  with  her  because 
he  seemed  so  humbly  suing  her.  His  air  had  changed. 

"  Bess,"  he  began  directly,  "  I  tried  to  work  to-night  and 
I  could  n't." 

"  I'm  glad  of  it,"  she  said  quickly.  "You  give  too  much 
time  to  that  old  furniture." 

"That  isn't  my  only  work.  I  tried  to  fiddle.  That  pleases 
you.  But  I've  spoiled  my  hands.  It  doesn't  matter.  The 
fiddling 's  behind  me,  and  I  don't  care.  But  it's  come  to  me 
that  I  can't  do  anything  of  any  sort  until  things  are  settled 
between  you  and  me." 

He  was  talking  with  an  intensity  of  determination  to  say 
what  was  in  his  mind.  She  listened  gravely  and  with  some 
concern,  he  seemed  so  moved,  almost  so  harsh. 


406       JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  I  've  just  one  thing  to  say  to  you/'  said  Hunter.  "It's 
this.  I  want  you  to  marry  me.  It's  not  likely  you  '11  say  yes 
on  the  spot,  but  I'd  like  to  have  you  thinking  it  over,  keep 
ing  me  in  your  mind,  trying  me,  you  know,  so  you  can  come 
to  a  decision  as  soon  as  possible." 

The  way  he  set  forth  his  petition  had  something  dry  in  it, 
almost  indifferent.  Yet  his  face  was  not  impassive.  It  be 
sought  her  to  think  well  of  him.  He  was  to  have  his  turn  at 
surprises.  Bess  was  smiling  at  him,  wondering,  it  seemed. 
Her  eyes  were  lovely  in  their  brightness. 

"Are  you  sure,"  she  said,  "you  mean  it, just  like  that?" 

"  Just  like  what,  Bess  ?  "  But  she  would  not  answer,  and 
he  had  to  find  the  words  again.  "  I  want  to  marry  you. 
Don't  you  see  ?" 

"  Oh,"  said  Bess,  "  that 's  the  most  beautiful  thing  that 
was  ever  said  to  me.  Oh,  I  thank  you.  I  can't  tell  you  how 
I  thank  you." 

Did  ever  a  girl  receive  an  offer  of  a  man  in  such  a  spirit  ? 
Yet  there  was  something  lacking.  He  could  not  open  a 
door  to  the  rush  of  feeling  in  himself.  She  was  no  nearer 
him,  even  further  it  might  be,  than  she  was  before.  He 
wanted  to  stretch  out  his  hands  to  her,  but  that  seemed  use 
less,  she  was  really  so  far  away.  But  she  was  glad,  and  yet 
it  was  for  some  reason  he  had  not  fathomed  and  even,  it  ap 
peared,  not  due  to  him  at  all. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  again,  shyly,  it  seemed,  this 
time. 

"Then,"  said  Hunter,  and  now  the  nervous  tension  of  it 
all  made  him  laugh  a  little,  "  then,  Bess,  I  'm  accepted." 

She  started  back  a  pace. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  she,  "  not  that.  It  could  n't  be  that  any 
way,  but  it 's  lovely  of  you  to  ask  me.  That 's  what  I 
mean." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      407 

Hunter  felt  the  irony  of  it  a  little,  as  he  had  years  ago 
when,  in  the  testing  of  his  various  powers,  he  had  sent  an 
article  to  a  magazine  and  received  it  again  with  expressions 
of  gratitude  almost  profuse. 

"  What  are  you  so  mighty  pleased  for,"  said  he,  "  if  you 
won't  have  me  ? " 

Bess  looked  at  him,  in  a  soft  implication  that  she  was  still 
thankful  and  he  would  understand. 

"  Of  course  I  could  n't  do  it,"  she  repeated.  "  But  you  see 
you  think  I  'm  worth  it.  Fit  for  it,  I  mean." 

"  Fit  to  marry  me  ?  Why,  Bess,  you  'd  have  to  stoop  to 


me." 


He  meant  that  fiercely  ;  she  saw  it,  but  she  shook  her 
head. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said,  in  her  tone  of  certainty.  "  You  see 
I  'm  not  a  lady,  and  you  're  splendid." 

Was  ever  flattery  so  beguilingly  given  because  it  was  so 
honest  ?  Hunter  felt  his  face  reddening,  and  suddenly  he 
wanted  to  laugh.  He  began  to  have  for  her  the  feeling  Winter- 
bourne  had,  that  she  was  the  simplest,  most  delicious  instance 
of  unconscious  humor  the  world  had  yet  produced. 

"  Don't  chaff,"  said  he.  Then  his  tone  softened  into  the 
lovingest  one  possible,  because  the  clear  look  of  her  eyes 
seemed  so  appealing  to  him.  "  What  do  you  want  to  say 
you  're  not  a  lady  for,  when  you  're  what  you  are  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  even  speak  good  grammar,"  she  assured 
him  eagerly.  "I  don't  know  how  to  do  the  things  ladies 
do,  and  if  I  did  know  I  should  n't  do  'em.  They  'd  just 
bother  me." 

"What  things,  Bess?" 

He  was  beginning  to  be  diverted  now.  Passionate  love  was 
retiring  a  pace  in  favor  of  an  unstinted  amusement  at  her  de 
licious  queerness. 


4o8       JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"Making  calls,"  she  answered  promptly,  "and  talking 
about  books.  I  like  to  do  things  with  my  hands,  and  be  alone, 
and  take  care  of  houses.  You  see,  I  'm  not  a  lady." 

If  Hunter  had  ever  doubted  that  he  wanted  her,  the  doubt 
would  have  fled  now  pursued  by  his  unconquerable  laughter. 
She  looked  at  him  in  mild  reproach,  not  seeing  he  was  think 
ing  how  she  would  enliven  every  hour  from  the  morning  until 
the  evening  with  her  clear  candor. 

"  I  should  n't  think  you  'd  laugh,"  said  she  reproachfully. 

Then  he  sobered. 

"  Bess,"  said  he,  "  you  're  a  very  beautiful  lady." 

She  bent  her  head  a  little,  involuntarily,  as  if  it  felt  a 
crown. 

"Thank  you,"  said  she.  "It  means  a  good  deal  coming 
just  now." 

"  Then  you  see,"  he  said  craftily,  addressing  himself  to  her 
conceit,  if  she  had  any,  "you  have  something  very  few  people 
have.  You  've  a  beautiful  voice." 

She  looked  at  him  in  quick  suspicion,  in  blank  discourage 
ment. 

"  It  is  n't  on  account  of  that  you  're  asking  me,"  she  said, 
"  because  I  can  sing  ?  ". 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  hastened  to  assure  her.  "  I  should  love  you 
if  you  were  dumb  as  an  owl." 

"  Because  I  could  n't  bear  that  again." 

"  Bess,"  said  Hunter,  for  he  felt  things  had  gone  far 
enough  for  him  to  venture  a  bribe,  "you  say  you're  not 
what  you  'd  like  to  be.  Now  you  marry  me,  and  we'll  go  to 
Europe  and  talk  grammar  all  day  long." 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said  innocently.  "I  don't  have  to  go  to 
Europe  to  learn  things.  He  'd  teach  me." 

"Winterbourne?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  her  clear  gaze  upon  him.  "He  knows 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      409 

everything.  Oh,  I  can  learn  things,  if  I  only  get  a  mite  of 
time." 

"  Bess,"  he  ventured  guardedly,  "  you  're  fond  of  Winter- 
bourne  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  answered  fervently,  "  he  's  everything  to 
me.  I  read  something  the  other  day  that  told  what  he  was  : 
'Your  father  and  mother  and  brother  and  sister.'  Celia  is  my 
sister  and  she 's  everything  to  me,  but  he 's  everything, 
too." 

Hunter  advanced  upon  her  and  caught  up  both  her 
hands  in  his  and  held  them  until  they  were  hurt.  That  he 
knew,  and  meant  it. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "there's  one  thing  he's  not.  He's  not 
your  lover."  She  looked  at  him  in  a  new-born  haughtiness. 
" And  I  am,"  he  hastened.  "And  he  's  not  your  husband. 
And  that  I  'm  going  to  be.  Remember." 

She  pulled  her  hands  away  and  he  was  ready  to  let  them 
go,  not  quite  sure  himself  of  the  prudence  of  restraint,  and 
she  looked  ruefully  at  their  bruised  plumpness.  He  thought 
she  was  angry,  but  to  his  amaze  she  suddenly  smiled  up  at 
him. 

"  That 's  all  right,"  she  said.  "  I  'm  glad  you  hurt  me. 
Once,  you  know  —  " 

"  Well,  out  with  it." 

She  was  ashamed,  but  she  answered  humbly. 

"  Once  I  struck  you.   I  was  n't  a  lady." 

"  We  're  quits  then,  Bess." 

But  she  had  talked  enough  about  these  matters.  There 
was  just  one  thing  more  to  say. 

"But  I  wish  you'd  go  to  Europe,"  she  assured  him. 
"  You  ought  to  make  the  most  of  yourself.  It  is  n't  enough 
for  a  young  man  like  you  to  be  driving  round  on  an  ex 
press  cart  here  in  Clyde." 


4io      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"What  if  I  like  it?    Just  as  you  like  not  making  calls?" 

"  Oh,  there  's  other  things,"  she  assured  him.  "  He  says 
you  're  the  King  of  Clyde.  You  ought  to  know  all  the 
things  there  are  in  the  world,  so  you'll  be  a  good  king." 

He  was  profoundly  touched. 

cc  Ought  I  ? "  he  said,  and  put  out  his  hand  to  her.  Bess 
gave  him  hers  frankly,  and  before  she  could  think  what  was 
befalling  her,  he  had  kissed  it.  "  Ought  I  ? "  he  asked 
again.  "  Well,  you  ought  to  yourself.  Good-night,  Queen 
of  Clyde." 

Then  he  went  without  delay,  and  Bess  was  left  holding 
her  hand  behind  her,  shut  tight  because  it  was  so  shy  over 
the  touch  upon  it.  Bess  did  not  know  what  to  think  of 
herself.  She  was  a  little,  a  very  little  happier,  even  if  Celia 
was  going  to  be  strangely  married  to-morrow,  and  she  knew 
it  was  because  so  splendid  a  person  had  thought  her  worth 
his  name. 

And  this  was  how  Winterbourne  had  done  his  errand  to 
Tim.  He  had  walked  up  to  the  Ramsay  door  and  opened 
it  and  gone  in.  But  Tim  was  not,  as  he  expected,  lying  on 
the  sofa,  where  he  spent  so  much  of  his  lazy  life.  He  was 
sitting  under  a  lamp  with  a  dingy  chimney,  absorbedly  out 
lining  a  pond  lily  in  white  on  a  breadth  out  of  a  discarded 
petticoat.  There  were  long  stitches  for  water  and  soft  shaded 
blooms.  It  was  Japanese.  There  was  illusion  in  it.  But 
Winterbourne's  casual  glimpse  at  it,  before  Tim  tossed  it 
guiltily  behind  the  sofa,  only  tended  to  confirm  his  theory 
that  Tim  was  a  poor  trumpery  thing. 

"Get  up,"  said  Winterbourne.  He  grasped  his  stick  the 
tighter.  "  Get  up  and  come  with  me." 

Tim  did  not  move. 

"  That  you,  Jackie  ?  "  he  inquired.  Winterbourne  read 
the  uneasiness  in  his  voice.  "  Have  a  chair." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      411 

"  Get  up,"  said  Winterbourne,  and  reached  down  to  him, 
putting  a  hand  by  chance  upon  his  collar. 

Then  Tim  rose  and  followed  him  out  of  the  house  and 
down  the  path.  There  he  stopped  and  faced  about. 

"  Say,  Jackie,  what  is  it  ?  "  he  asked  fretfully.  "  I  Ve  got 
a  cold."  ' 

"Timothy  Ramsay,"  said  Winterbourne,  "you  are  a 
sneak  and  a  liar,  and  the  worst  of  it  is,  you  're  a  fool.  And 
I  came  up  here  to-night  to  thrash  you  like  a  little  boy,  but 
I  won't  do  it,  for  your  mother 's  a  good  and  a  pathetic  woman, 
and  she's  sold  all  she  's  got  for  dross,  and  your  father's  to 
be  pitied.  So  I  bid  you  mend  your  ways,  and  be  honest, 
man,  honest.  And  —  "  here  the  warmth  in  him  came  burst 
ing  out  —  "  when  Mr.  Gregory  and  I  've  got  our  manufac 
turing  in  order,  maybe  we  '11  send  you  out  to  sell  a  bill  of 
goods:  for  you  're  a  pretty  lad  and  you  could  talk  the  legs 
off  a  brass  pot.  Good-night,  and  mend  your  ways."  And 
he  took  the  road  home  and  muttered  to  himself,  "I  'm  a 
fool,  a  putty-hearted  fool." 

Bess  sat  on  his  steps  waiting  for  him.  She  got  up  and 
walked  in  before  him,  pausing  then  in  the  hall  because  she 
had  just  one  thing  to  say.  Winterbourne  had  to  look  at 
her  steadily  to  be  sure  the  dim  light  even  had  not  blinded 
him,  for  here  she  was  all  of  a  radiance  who  had  been  so  cast 
down. 

"  Daddy,"  said  she. 

She  whispered,  and  he  whispered  mysteriously  back, 
"Yes,  kiddie." 

"  Mr.  Hunter  has  asked  me  to  marry  him.  So  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  I  '11  study  all  the  books  you  say,  because  I  Ve 
got  to  be  different." 

"Lord  above  us!"  said  Winterbourne.  "So  he's  got 
ye." 


412       JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  No,  no,"  said  Bess,  in  great  surprise  that  he  could 
think  it.  "Why,  no!  only  if  he  says  I  'm  good  enough  for 
that,  why,  I  Ve  got  to  make  something  of  myself.  He 
thinks  I  'm  a  lady.  It 's  wonderful.  I  Ve  got  to  be  one." 

So  she  ran  upstairs,  having  shared  her  deep  conclusion, 
and  left  him  pondering. 


XXXII 

THE  strangeness  of  the  next  morning  was  all  one 
with  Celia's  conception  of  it.  At  ten  o'clock  she 
came  downstairs,  Bess,  her  face  overspread  with  what 
seemed  apprehension,  beside  her,  and  Lovell  was  waiting  at 
the  stair-foot.  Inside  the  room  were  the  others,  —  the  young 
parson,  eager  to  please,  making  conversation  out  of  local 
nothings,  and  Catherine,  dead  white  in  a  pretty  negligey 
looking  as  if  the  sky  had  fallen.  Winterbourne,  out  of  pity 
for  her,  because  she  incredibly  considered  it  so  important, 
stood  by  her  clad  in  his  seldom-worn  best,  and  amid  this 
hush  of  circumstance,  Celia  was  married  and  kissed,  and 
walked  out  of  the  house  with  Lovell,  who  alone  looked  what 
weddings  should  induce  in  mortal  man.  The  little  parson 
stayed  briefly  and  expressed  his  sympathy  for  Mrs.  Winter- 
bourne,  who,  it  began  to  dawn  upon  him,  looked  very  ill 
indeed ;  and  then  he  went,  and  Catherine  rose  to  go  to  her 
own  room  but  turned  instead  and,  crying  silently,  leaned 
upon  Winterbourne's  shoulder,  where  he  endeavored  to  re 
suscitate  her  by  large  pats  of  a  gentle  hand  and  mumbled 
kindnesses. 

Bess,  apparently  not  seeing  them,  her  own  face  sad  with 
wakefulness  and  the  misery  of  it  all,  moved  about  setting 
back  chairs  to  an  exact  line,  and  now,  having  felt  so  much, 
feeling  nothing.  Catherine  was  talking  wildly  among  her 
sobs. 

"  She  never  loved  me,  John.  She  never  had  a  spark  of 
love  forme.  She  never  told  me  she. was  engaged  to  him  —  " 

"You've  been  sick,"  Winterbourne  reminded  her.   He 


4H      JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

was  most  unaffectedly  sorry  for  her,  and  his  shoulder  was 
getting  wet  with  tears  which  gave  him  a  comical  distaste. 
"  Of  course  she  did  n't  bring  you  a  hue  and  cry  like  that." 

"  She  walked  out  of  the  house  as  if  I  were  a  stranger 
to  her.  When  I  kissed  her,  it  was  like  kissing  a  marble 
image  —  " 

Bess  was  before  them,  speaking  tremblingly  but  with  reso 
lution. 

"  It  is  n't  because  she  is  n't  thankful  to  you.  We  're  both 
thankful." 

Catherine  was  recalled. 

"No,  no,"  she  murmured.  "That's  not  it.  It  was  be 
cause  I  wanted  her  to  love  me.  I  've  loved  her  so  much." 
Then  Bess  turned  away,  and  left  them,  and  Catherine  had 
more  to  say.  "  Nobody  has  ever  loved  me,"  she  averred, 
standing  there  shuddering  in  the  circle  of  her  husband's 
arm.  "  No  one.  You  know  it,  John." 

Winterbournewas  silent  fora  moment,  the  big  kind  hand 
stroking  her  shoulder.  This  was  emotion,  unsummoned  by 
its  object,  undesired.  He  had  the  natural  man's  desire  to 
run.  But  he  called  upon  himself,  with  some  echo  of  the 
voices  he  had  been  evoking  out  of  the  night  to  rule  his  being, 
to  meet  her  trouble  for  her  because  she  was,  for  this  earthly 
span,  his  destiny. 

"  Catherine,"  said  he.  There  was  authority  in  his  voice, 
something  new  also,  in  that  it  implied  he  had  been  listening 
to  her.  "  You  're  a  goose,"  said  Winterbourne.  "  You  waste 
your  time  brooding  over  this  thing  we  call  love.  Don't  you 
do  it.  Look  at  the  leaves.  Look  at  the  sky.  Why,  they  're 
enough  to  spend  a  lifetime  over.  You  get  well,  Kit,  and 
we  '11  take  a  walk.  We  '11  take  one  every  day,  and  see  how 
the  world  's  getting  on.  But  we  must  n't  fret  like  this  over 
people's  not  loving  us.  It's  —  we  can't,  that's  all." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      415 

She  withdrew  a  pace  and  looked  at  him.  The  words  were 
kindly.  They  were  not  warm,  yet  there  was  an  implication 
somewhere  that  she  was  to  share  his  life.  She  felt  a  little 
nearer  him. 

"  See  here,  Catherine,"  said  he.  "  I  Ve  been  watching  a 
deaf  man  hear.  I  suppose  I  can  imagine  what  it  would  be 
for  a  blind  man  to  see.  Now  you  and  I  Ve  got  all  our  senses. 
So  the  world  's  ours.  Wake  up,  girl.  Stop  dreaming  about 
old  dreams.  Let's  see  if  we  can  get  busy  the  few  years  there 
are  left  to  us." 

"You  mean,"  she  said  timidly,  "for  others?" 

Winterbourne  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  grasped  his 
pipe.  He  held  it  hard.  It  seemed  to  help  him,  when  there 
were  formulated  altruisms  in  the  air. 

"No,"  said  he,  "you  bet  I  don't.  I  mean,  worship  the 
sun  when  he  comes  up  and  thank  him  when  he  goes  to  bed, 
and  read  a  book  and  not  think  so  very  much  about  what  we 
wish  we  had.  That's  the  devil's  own  work,  Cat.  It  fevers 
your  mind  up.  If  you  were  nursing  children  it  would  make 
them  sick  with  the  taint  of  it." 

She  knew  that.  Her  mind,  when  she  mused  over  what 
she  desired,  grew  muddy  and  heaved  like  an  unquiet  lake. 
She  looked  at  him  with  adoration  in  her  eyes,  fear,  too,  the 
fear  we  feel  before  those  we  greatly  love. 

"You  show  me,"  she  besought  humbly. 

Winterbourne  shook  his  head. 

"  No,"  said  he,  "I  can't.  It 's  unnatural.  It's  the  woman 
that 's  got  to  make  the  pace.  You  think  it  over.  You  see  if 
it  is  n't.  Now  run  upstairs.  This  afternoon  we  '11  have  a 
walk." 

She  went,  without  another  demanding  look  at  him.  Climb 
ing  the  stairs  slowly,  she  heard  Bess  moving  about  in  Mrs. 
Ramsay's  room.  What  did  Bess  think,  she  wondered,  of 


4i 6      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S;  FAMILY 

Celia's  marriage  ?  She  felt  something  deeply,  for  her  face 
showed  it,  but  she  went  about  her  tasks  unchanged.  Was 
that  the  secret  of  her  power,  that  she  demanded  nothing  and 
fed  other  minds  without  disturbing  them  ?  In  her  own  room 
Catherine  did  not  throw  herself  down  to  rest  as  she'  had 
thought  she  must.  She  sat  wondering  whether,  for  the  first 
time,  she  could  enter  Winterbourne's  house  of  life  and  live 
there.  She  had  never  for  a  moment  before  contemplated  that. 
It  had  seemed  to  her  that  his  domain  was  on  the  ground 
floor,  where  a  hundred  rude  servitors  could  come  in  at  any 
minute  with  their  muddy  boots.  His  boots  too  were  muddy, 
for  he  was  always  tramping  out  into  the  world  and  plunging 
back  with  its  clay  upon  him.  She  wanted  him  to  live  with  her 
in  her  tower  near  the  stars,  and  when  he  would  n't  come  she 
cried  and  ran  down  to  his  ground  floor  to  beseech  him.  But 
if  she  loved  him,  could  n't  she  love  him  in  his  own  house  of 
life  ?  He  would  n't  climb  to  hers.  And  yet,  was  it  climbing  P 
Was  she,  after  all,  anything  but  the  harsh  creditor  who  in 
sisted  on  the  fulfilment  of  a  bond?  He  had  said,  all  those 
years  ago,  that  he  adored  her,  and  she  was  insisting  he  should 
adore  her  still. 

Catherine  had  to  formulate,  even  now  when  she  had  re 
solved  to  live  and  formulate  no  more.  She  had  to  be  head 
long,  too,  and  because  it  seemed  to  her  that  Bess  won  love, 
she  would  be  like  Bess.  So  she  dressed  carefully,  in  a  shirt 
waist  and  short  skirt,  and  trembling  a  good  deal,  because 
she  was  really  tired  and  not  yet  less  than  half  an  invalid, 
went  downstairs  and  appeared  beside  Bess  in  the  dining-room 
where  she  was  putting  a  cupboard  in  order,  preparatory  to 
leaving  when  her  chance  should  come.  For  Bess  suddenly 
had  her  plans,  and  they  all  had  to  do  with  leaving  Catherine 
the  sway  of  her  own  house,  and  herself  travelling  the  diffi 
cult  road  that  meant  becoming  a  lady 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       417 

"  Bess/'  said  Catherine,  "will  you  give  me  something  to 
do?" 

Bess  looked  about  at  her,  startled.  Then  her  mind  righted 
itself,  understanding  that  this  was  one  step  upward  in  a  sick 
woman's  climb. 

"  You  could  sit  here  and  dust  these  cups,"  she  said.  "  I  '11 
put  them  up." 

Celia  had  walked  with  her  husband  to  their  little  house, 
which  Mary  Manahan  had  spent  the  night  cleaning  and 
Lovell  fastidiously  refining  in  its  previous  orderly  array.  He 
opened  the  door  for  her,  and  she  went  in.  Then  the  bride 
groom's  transport  of  heaven  attained  came  upon  him,  and 
he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her.  This  Celia  suffered; 
but  she  grew  whiter,  and,  he  felt,  trembled.  That  seemed 
beautiful  to  him ;  her  remoteness  made  a  part  of  her  charm. 
But  she  took  off  her  hat,  and  began  gayly  now  to  play  the 
game  of  householding  here  for  an  interval  until  the  big  house 
should  be  ready. 

Lovell,  in  a  hidden  way,  was  wild  with  the  delight  of  it. 
His  poor  drab  life  had  turned  into  a  miracle.  Here  was  no 
fruit  of  effort ;  he  was  being  surfeited  with  good  fortune  big 
enough  for  heroes.  He  had  played  the  coward's  part,  with 
drawn  from  deeds  and  the  desire  of  them;  but  destiny  had 
plucked  the  golden  apple  and  tossed  it  down  to  him.  He 
could  do  household  tasks,  and  set  out  their  luncheon,  laugh 
ing  at  himself  for  having  the  wit  to  do  it,  —  salad  and  wine 
and  berries,  with  a  cup  of  coffee  after.  But  he  felt  no  dispar 
agement  of  his  lenten  fare.  He  had  lived  simply  so  long  that 
it  seemed  the  most  fastidious  way,  and  she,  he  knew,  must 
be  one  with  him.  After  luncheon  they  went  into  the  big  house, 
and  she  wakened  to  some  real  animation  over  its  beauty,  the 
lovely  panelling,  the  perfect  consistency  of  it  all.  It  seemed 


4i 8      JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

to  her  ready  to  begin  living  in  at  once;  but  he  explained 
to  her  the  practical  needs  of  a  place  so  long  vacant.  Then 
they  came  back  and  found  the  invisible  Mary  had  washed 
their  dishes  and  again  tidied  up,  and  the  charm  of  it  began 
to  envelop  Celia.  It  was  like  living  in  a  fairy  house. 

They  ate  their  supper,  bread  and  milk,  and  this  frugality 
Lovell  laughed  at  with  no  shame,  but  told  her  she  should 
have  servants  as  soon  as  there  was  room  for  them.  And  then, 
as  she  sat  in  her  chair  by  the  west  window,  wondering  at  the 
way  things  were  moving,  her  mind  ready  to  turn  hither  or 
yon  as  the  rein  of  chance  should  guide  it,  Lovell  came  and 
threw  himself  on  the  floor  beside  her  and  laid  his  face  upon 
her  knee.  He  was  suddenly,  she  saw,  profoundly  moved,  and 
the  overwhelmingness  of  it  all  came  upon  her  in  a  rush.  He 
was  madly  in  love  with  her,  and  she  was  his  wife.  She  sat 
there  thinking  this,  growing  cold  to  her  finger-tips,  wishing 
she  dared  touch  his  hair,  for  that  would  be  some  sort  of  an 
swer,  and  knowing  she  could  not,  and  suddenly  he  lifted  his 
ardent  eyes  to  hers.  What  he  saw  there  sobered  him  and 
calmed  the  transport  of  possession.  She  had  paled.  She  trem 
bled.  He  liked  that,  because  she  was  to  be  won.  But  there 
was  something  he  did  not  like. 

"What  is  it,  Celia?"  he  asked  her  quietly. 

She  answered  at  once,  in  a  low  voice,  without  emotion. 

"  I  am  afraid." 

"Afraid?  of  what?" 

"Of  you." 

For  it  had  come  upon  her,  sitting  there  while  he  trembled 
with  love  of  her,  that  she  was  in  the  presence  of  a  very  big 
thing  indeed.  Whatever  it  might  mean  to  her  to  be  beloved, 
to  him  it  meant  infinitely  to  love  her,  and  some  response  was 
born  in  her,  if  only  that  of  wonder  and  an  involuntary  re 
spect  as  at  the  presence  of  something  incomprehensible.  By 


JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      419 

a  great  leap,  her  mind  compassed  fealty  as  something  she 
owed  him.  He  was  smiling  now,  in  his  lover's  confidence. 

"  You  are  so  beautiful,"  he  said  irrationally.  "  Dearest ! " 
That  seemed  to  him  a  sufficient  answer  to  her  fears.  But  now 
he  rushed  a  whole  length  on  his  headlong  way.  "  Say  you 
love  me,"  he  besought  her.  "Say  the  words." 

Celia  answered  instantly,  afraid,  indeed,  to  hesitate. 

"  I  can't." 

He  rose  to  his  knees  now  and  put  his  arms  about  her  and 
his  face  to  hers. 

"  Say  it,"  he  commanded.  He  laughed  at  the  pretty  play 
of  it  all.  "Say  you  love  me." 

"  I  can't,"  said  Celia,  in  a  dull  despair.  "  I  don't  suppose 
I  do." 

He  drew  back,  stung  by  the  lash  of  it,  his  face  suddenly 
changed.  He  got  on  his  feet  and  took  a  chair  within  arm's 
length  of  her. 

"What  is  it?"  he  entreated  her,  now  with  a  studied  and 
extreme  gentleness.  "  Celia,  what 's  the  matter?" 

She  wrenched  the  words  out  and  seemed  to  throw  them  at 
him. 

"  I  don't  know  what  love  is." 

He  considered. 

"  Don't  you  love  your  sister  ?  "  This  he  asked  her  gently, 
seeking,  it  seemed,  to  find  the  first  steps  toward  leading  her 
in  the  lovely  way  she  surely  meant  to  go. 

A  flash  came  over  her  face,  brightening  in  the  eyes,  quiv 
ering  over  the  mouth.  She  was  remembering  what  it  is  to  be 
condemned  by  one  beloved  as  she  had  been  by  Bess. 

"  It  is  different,"  she  managed  to  say,  "  She  is  a  girl.  You 
are  a  man." 

"And  you  don't  love  me?" 

It  was   not  spoken   in    harshness.    She  seemed  to  have 


420       JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

dragged  it  forth,  and  he  who  really  knew  nothing  of  her  inner 
mind,  could  not  guess  what  passion  of  dawning  loyalty  toward 
his  love  for  her  lay  in  the  effort  she  was  making  to  set  him 
right.  He  got  up  and  walked  across  the  room  once  and  back 
again.  The  golden  apple  had  not,  it  seemed,  dropped  into  his 
treasury.  Destiny  was  more  exact.  What  he  had  thought  a 
fairy  fortune  was  nothing  but  a  big  challenge  over  again,  and 
he  who  had  failed  a  challenge  once  might  be  on  the  verge  of 
double  failure.  In  the  midst  of  his  tumultuous  passion  he 
had  the  calm  to  remind  himself  of  that.  He  spoke,  with  a 
considered  quiet. 

"  Then  — why  are  we  here  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  and  he  waited  for  her  to  answer. 
Suddenly  it  seemed  to  her  the  basest  possible  deed  that  she 
should  have  taken  advantage  of  his  warm  belief  and  that  they 
were  here.  He  was  still  waiting  for  her  to  speak. 

"I  have  treated  you,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "horribly." 

Lovell  considered.  He  considered  her,  her  beauty  chiefly, 
which  seemed  the  index  of  purity  alone. 

"  You  puzzle  me,"  he  said  then,  but  more,  it  was  evident, 
to  his  own  mind  than  to  her.  There  they  sat,  a  world  between 
them,  Celia  conscious  of  a  stronger  emotion  than  she  had 
ever  felt  in  her  life  before.  Come  what  would  of  it,  she  must 
not  deceive  him  in  the  slightest  breath.  He  looked  to  her 
entirely  unlike  the  man  who  had  made  love  to  her  a  week 
ago.  He  had  become  her  judge.  If  she  had  to  pay  the  pen 
alty  of  ill  deeds,  it  would  be  by  insisting  that  he  know  her 
fully.  It  would  be  tearing  down  the  fabric  of  his  house  of 
life,  with  hers.  Celia  had  been  like  Bess,  shy  in  her  dreams 
of  what  love  might  be ;  but  now,  without  warning,  the  vision 
of  it  came  upon  her  and  she  saw  it  in  its  adorable  simplicity, 
its  morning  tints.  She  saw  herself  suddenly  as  she  might  have 
been,  a  young  creature  caught  up  on  the  wings  of  a  man's 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      421 

devotion  and  swept  away  to  an  enchanted  paradise.  But  she 
had  manipulated,  juggled,  and  therefore  she  was  jaded  before 
her  time.  And  every  minute  she  grew  colder  and  looked 
colder  also,  so  that  he  began,  studying  her  face,  to  wonder  at 
her. 

"  Celia,"  said  he,  at  length,  "I  can't  make  you  out." 

She  laughed  a  little,  a  note  of  derision  in  the  sound. 

"No,"  she  said.  "Shall  I  tell  you?  Do  you  want  to  know 
why  I  am  in  disgrace  with  the  Winterbournes  ?  " 

He  considered  for  a  moment.  In  the  first  impulse  of 
chivalrous  partisanship  he  had  meant  not  to  listen;  but  she 
was  on  a  dark  road,  he  saw,  where,  if  he  was  to  carry  light, 
he  must  be  with  her. 

"  I  think  you  'd  better  tell  me,"  he  said  then. 

Now  it  was  Celia  who  deliberated.  She  could  have  laughed 
at  the  task  before  her.  Again  she  thought  how  funny  it  would 
be  to  say, — 

"  I  said  I  didn't  know  where  an  ear-trumpet  was.  I  did 
know." 

She  remembered,  in  the  quickness  of  the  mind  that  heels 
on  great  emotion,  that  Winterbourne  had  once  said  we  are 
never  angry  because  of  the  little  thing  that  sets  us  off.  It  is 
all  the  accretion  of  old  wrongs.  In  other  homely  words,  the 
last  straw  breaks  the  back.  She  had  not  lied  about  an  ear- 
trumpet  merely.  She  had  seen  things  as  they  were  and  shown 
them  as  they  were  not.  She  had  said,  "  I  love,"  when  she 
had  not  loved,  and  now  the  swift  insistency  of  the  truth  eluded 
her.  Best  not  to  meddle  with  facts,  for  then  would  come  in 
the  ear-trumpet  again  and  the  irony  of  it. 

"  I  tell  lies,"  said  Celia,  speaking  as  simply  now  as  Bess 
might  have  done.  That  was  the  first  step  of  her  calvary.  She 
drew  a  heavy  breath,  reflecting  that  the  next  one  might  be 
easier. 


422       JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

But  Lovell  was  not  one  inch  away  from  his  perplexity.  He 
held  out  his  hands  to  her. 

"Come,  Celia,"  he  said.  "  Come  here.  It  will  be  easier  to 
talk  so." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  he  tried  argument. 

"It  is  n't  a  lie  that  we  love  each  other,  is  it?" 

She  could  not  answer.  How  did  she  know  now  exactly 
what  the  truth  of  this  rhad  come  to  be?  He  was  smiling  at 
her.  The  beautiful  mouth  his  mother  and  sister  had  loved 
was  very  sweet. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  it 's  true  we're  married.  What  did  we 
marry  for  ?  " 

Celia  shook  her  head. 

"  I  almost  don't  know,"  she  said,  seeking  to  be  exact.  "  I 
suppose  I  wanted  to  get  away  —  from  them." 

"  Not  from  Bess  ?  " 

"  I  wanted  a  home  for  Bess.  I  wanted  her  to  stop  work 
ing  —  and  study  —  and  sing." 

"  You  thought  I  would  give  her  a  home  ?  " 

She  nodded,  not  looking  at  him. 

"Well,"  said  Lovell,  "I  will."  He  spoke  without  bitter 
ness,  anxious  only,  it  appeared,  to  get  on  to  matters  more 
immediate  to  themselves.  "How  about  you,  Celia?  We  won't 
think  about  Bess.  She  shall  come  to  you.  How  about  you? 
When  you  married  me,  didn't  you  think  you  —  loved  me?" 
He  said  it  humbly,  as  if,  fully  as  he  had  believed  it  to  be  true, 
the  assurance  of  it  would  be  incredible. 

Celia  shook  her  head. 

"How  do  I  know?"  she  said,  and  then  in  a  despairing 
irritability,  "  Oh,  how  tired  I  am  !  " 

Lovell  rose  at  once.  He  had  become  the  solicitous  host. 
The  summer  night  had  been  gathering,  and  now  she  was 
little  more  to  him  than  a  voice  in  the  darkness,  yet  much 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      423 

more,  the  warm  presence  of  her,  the  indeterminate  shape 
toward  which  all  his  blood  seemed  tending.  But  of  this,  the 
compelling  power  of  her,  he  must  not  think.  He  lighted 
candles  now,  and  in  the  ray  of  them  she  stole  a  look  at  him 
and  saw  how  pale  he  was  and  how  set  his  mouth  had  grown. 
She  had  not  known  in  the  least  what  sort  of  a  man  it  was  she 
juggled  with.  He  began  to  seem  a  very  potent  force  indeed. 
He  had  taken  a  candle,  and  seemed  waiting  for  her. 

"  Let  me  show  you  your  room,"  he  said  now.  "  The  bed 
room  there.  You  must  n't  be  afraid,  though  it's  the  ground 
floor.  I  shall  be  out  here." 

Celia  rose  wearily.  She  was  stiff  with  tiredness,and  hermus- 
cles  ached.  Midway  to  take  the  candle  from  him,  she  paused 
and  stretched  her  arms  to  heaven,  overcome  with  the  con 
tradictions  of  her  lot.  She  was  homesick,  and  yet  she  had  no 
home.  She  was  passionately  anxious  to  be  loved  — was  not 
the  vanity  Winterbourne  had  credited  her  with  the  obverse 
side  of  true  desire?  —  and  here  was  a  man  who,  but  a  minute 
ago,  had  loved  her.  She  wanted  with  every  fibre  of  her  to  be 
approved,  and  if  ever  woman  had  been  admired,  she  had 
been.  Yet  it  did  her  no  good  because  she  had  become  hate 
ful  to  herself.  She  stood  there  now  looking  past  him,  her 
great  eyes  widening. 

"The  trouble  is  —  "she  said. 

"  Well,"  said  Lovell,  "  the  trouble  is  ?  " 

The  trouble  was,  her  fighting  soul  was  crying,  if  she  had 
made  so  many  veils  between  her  and  the  truth,  should  she 
ever  see  it  ?  But  she  put  out  her  hand  and  took  the  candle 
from  him. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said.  The  door  closed  behind  her  and 
Lovell  went  back  to  the  mantel,  put  out  the  candles,  and  sat 
down  in  his  chair  by  the  window. 

And  there  he  sat  all  night  and  thought  chiefly,  it  seemed 


424      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

to  him  for  no  reason,  of  his  ancestor,  the  soldier,  whose  life 
had  been  devoted  to  a  woman  —  the  wife  who  never  left  her 
bed,  who  was  beset  with  peevishness  from  the  reaction  of  torn 
nerves,  and  to  whom  he  hastened  in  every  absence  from  af 
fairs,  as  to  the  perfect  mate.  That  was  love  fulfilled.  But  this, 
too,  was  more  than  the  winning  of  the  woman  creature,  the 
transcendent  bride;  it  was  the  challenge  of  life  itself.  "I 
must  keep  my  head/'  he  kept  commanding  himself  above 
that  tumult  of  the  mind.  u  I  must  keep  my  head."  But  what 
gibes  beset  him  in  the  darkness.  He  was  paying  penalty,  as 
he  always  did  in  actual  life,  for  the  creative  nature,  the  seeing 
eye,  the  quick  comparison,  the  too  responsive  nerve.  What 
ever  Lovell  might  accomplish,  he  was  of  those  who  look  upon 
life,  recoil  from  it  perhaps,  suffer  horribly  with  what  seems 
at  times  the  disease  of  it,  and  recreate  it  in  some  form  of  art. 
All  the  phantoms  that  understand  how  to  rend  and  tear 
thronged  upon  him ;  here,  a  thousand  voices  told  him,  was 
another  joke  on  him  out  of  the  unexpectedness  of  the  general 
comedy.  He  was  Time's  fool.  But  a  savage  conviction  had 
been  strengthening  in  him,  in  this  fallow,  silent  interval,  that 
it  is  of  no  use  to  see,  or  even  write,  if  you  cannot  also  get  your 
grip  on  circumstance,  the  jade,  and  whirl  her  about  to  be  your 
handmaid.  The  one  real  stint  is  to  be  a  man.  And  again  he 
told  himself  "  I  must  keep  my  head." 


XXXIII 

CELIA  was  so  tired  that  she  slept  all  night,  waking 
only  once,  for  a  minute  or  two  of  homesick  terror ; 
but  before  the  mind  could  rouse  itself  really,  she 
was  off  again,  and  it  was  the  late  morning  before  she  woke 
for  good.  Then  care  leaped  upon  her.  Grief  had  her  by 
the  throat,  and  she  succumbed  to  that  sickness  of  the  mind 
which  is  the  young's  own  and  the  old  are  never  likely  to  feel 
again,  the  blessed  old  who  have  learned  "  this  too  will  pass." 
But  here  she  was,  every  nerve  on  fire  and  her  blood  hurry 
ing  to  augment  the  flame.  Something  had  to  be  done.  As 
she  dressed  she  thought  intently.  Nothing,  it  seemed,  would 
make  the  place  where  she  found  herself  in  any  slight  degree 
better  save  to  take  herself  away.  When  she  went  out,  Lovell 
was  waiting,  and  the  table,  fastidiously  laid,  was  ready.  He 
turned  at  once,  after  their  good-morning,  to  the  spirit-lamp, 
and  asked  her  in  the  tone  of  the  camping  chum  how  she 
liked  her  eggs.  She  thought  she  did  n't  want  any;  but  when 
she  saw  him  put  his  in,  it  seemed  to  her  she  did,  and  he  was 
adroitly  ready,  timing  them. 

Then  they  sat  down  together,  and  Celia  had  no  small  talk 
afoot.  In  the  glance  she  stole  at  him,  she  saw  his  night  had 
not  been  the  truce  between  miseries  that  hers  had  been.  He 
looked  jaded.  His  eyes  wore  the  look  of  pain.  She  would 
have  been  surprised  to  know  how  persistently  all  night  he 
had  been  thinking,  not  of  her,  but  of  the  desirability  that  he 
should  not  fail.  Of  his  sharp  need  of  her,  his  sense  of  out 
rage  at  the  trick  she  and  fortune  together  had  combined  for 
him,  he  did  not  dare,  now  even  at  the  sight  of  her,  to  think. 


426      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

Lovell  had  learned  that  in  time  of  grief  you  have  to  husband 
your  power  for  the  actual  siege;  you  have  none  to  spare  for 
fusillades.  And  over  and  over  again,  sitting  opposite  her  at 
the  table,  he  thought  of  the  old  colonel  and  his  chivalric  serv 
ice.  But  he  did  talk  a  little,  about  the  house,  and  Hopkins, 
who  was  a  perpetual  question-mark,  and  Celia  was  grateful  to 
him.  And  then,  breakfast  being  over,  he  asked  her  if  she 
did  n't  want  to  go  down  the  brook  path  behind  the  house  and 
leave  the  scene  to  Mary  Manahan.  She  agreed  at  once,  un 
derstanding,  from  his  manner  and  also  from  her  sense  of  what 
must  come,  that  she  was  to  have  her  trial  there. 

For  Celia  now  had  no  idea  that  she  was  to  escape  or  that 
she  wished  to.  Something  had  got  to  be  done  to  reconstruct 
the  disorder  of  her  life.  Some  hidden  self  was  speaking  in 
her,  some  inheritance  from  her  working  ancestors  who  had 
bent  themselves  to  bring  comeliness  out  of  disarray.  They 
went  out  together  and  down  the  path  to  the  fringing  woods, 
small  trees  on  the  border,  oaks  and  birches,  and  within,  a 
higher  knoll  where  pines  began.  These  had  been  thinned 
persistently  and  with  wisdom,  so  that  something  great  had 
been  attained  by  tall  clean-growing  trees  with  space  between. 
But  Lovell  chose  the  little  path  down  to  the  singing  brook, 
and  by  its  plashy  solitude  he  halted  and  showed  her  the  seats 
under  trees  and  asked  if  they  should  stay.  Celia  sat  down 
and  began  at  once,  looking  up  at  him  with  a  serious  strained 
face  from  which  consciousness  of  self  and  the  vanity  of 
beauty's  challenge  had  gone  utterly. 

"  Let 's  have  it  over,"  she  said. 

"What?"  he  asked.  He,  too,  seated  himself,  but  where 
it  would  not  be  easy  to  see  her  face.  He  wanted  to  give  her 
every  chance. 

"  I   have  got  to  tell  you,"  said  Celia,  cc  everything  about 


me." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      427 

"  That 's  as  you  choose." 

"I've  got  to.  Don't  tell  me  I  needn't.  I  must.  You 
don't  know  me.  I  wish  I  could  make  you.  You  know  Mrs. 
Winterbourne  adopted  me." 

"  Yes." 

"  She  cared  a  lot  about  me ;  but  I  don't  know  whether  it 
was  about  me  or  because  she  had  to  care  about  some 
thing." 

"  Did  you  care  about  her  ?  " 

She  reflected. 

"  Yes,  at  first.  But  when  I  began  to  grow  up  she  wanted 
me  to  do  things  I  could  n't  do." 

"  What  things  ?  " 

"  She  wanted  me  to  be  clever,  she  did  n't  care  how.  I  had 
lessons  on  the  piano  for  years,  then  the  violin.  I  hated  them. 
I  can't  play." 

There  was  more  bitter  feeling  in  her  voice  than  he  had 
heard  in  it  as  yet. 

"  Poor  child!  "  he  muttered.  There  was  relief  in  pitying 
her. 

"  I  can  sing  a  little,  a  very  little.  She  made  me  have  les 
sons,  but  I  did  n't  sing  well  enough,  don't  you  see  ?  She 
thought  I  could  paint, —  I  believe  she  thought  I  really  could 
do  that  if  I  was  n't  obstinate,  —  but  1  could  n't.  I  am  stupid, 
Mr.  Lovell.  I  have  no  brain." 

He  was  looking  at  her  hand  lying  on  her  knee,  the  deli 
cate  white  hand  that  wore  his  mother's  ring.  He  craved  to 
touch  it,  and  the  sickness  of  the  longing  made  him  glad  she 
could  not  see  his  face.  Celia  went  on. 

"  We  were  thrown  all  the  time  with  people  that  could  do 
things,  women  that  write  books  and  talk  in  public.  Once 
she  thought  perhaps  I  could  write.  I  tried  everything,  to 
please  her.  I  wanted  to,  myself.  I  wanted  to  be  liked.  But 


428      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

I  found  out  one  thing.  I  found  it  out  all  of  a  sudden.  I  'm 
not  an  affectionate  person." 

This  was  thrown  in  with  the  uplift  of  a  timid  question. 

"  Are  n't  you  ?  "  he  asked  stupidly  from  his  dream,  still 
thinking  of  the  white  hand. 

"I  feel  ever  so  far  away  from  most  people.  When  they 
begin  to  come  nearer  I  don't  like  it.  But  I  found  out  if  I 
did  n't  run  away,  if  I  seemed  nearer,  they  liked  me.  That 
pleased  her.  I  was  popular.  She  would  rather  have  had  me 
called  intellectual ;  but  I  could  n't  be,  and  so  she  was  glad 
to  have  me  charming." 

"  Were  they  men  ?  "  Lovell  asked,  out  of  a  new  pang, 
"men  you  charmed?  " 

"  Not  so  much  as  women.  The  women  were  her  friends. 
That  was  the  way  to  please  her.  But  she  was  always  studying 
me  and  she  studied  out  that,  and  one  day  she  told  me  I  said 
I  loved  people  to  make  them  love  me,  and  that  when  I  'd 
gone  away  from  them  I  never  thought  of  them  again.  Well, 
—  I  did  n't." 

"  Then  —    "  he  reminded  her,  after  too  long  a  pause. 

"Then  we  found  Bess."  Her  voice  took  on  strength  and 
color.  "  She  was  my  own  sister.  I  'd  never  had  anything  my 
own.  She  did  n't  try  to  make  me  over.  She  just  liked  me 
and  thought  I  was  right.  She  had  her  voice,  you  know,  and 
for  a  little  while  I  believed  that  was  going  to  set  us  at  the 
top  of  things,  where  we  could  be  everything  mamma  ex 
pected  of  us.  And  mamma  wished  it  —  awfully.  But  she  lost 
money  and  we  had  to  come  down  here,  and  Bess  won't  sing, 
can't  sing,  when  you  want  her  to  or  when  it  '11  do  her  any 
good,  and  I  went  mad  over  it,  I  wanted  money  so.  I  knew 
if  we  had  enough  to  go  away  without  mamma,  we  could  man 
age  it  somehow.  I  felt  I  could  lead  her  on  to  sing,  not 
letting  her  be  watched  and  driven.  I  knew  she  'd  sing  to 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      429 

please  me.  And  when  I  heard  of  a  way  to  make  money,  I 
listened  —  and  if  I  heard  of  a  person  that  had  money,"  — 
her  voice  sank  here,  in  shame  unbearable,  —  "  I  wondered 
if  he  would  send  Bess  and  me  away  for  her  to  study, 
and  when  she  began  to  sing,  then  we  could  pay  him 
back." 

There  she  paused.  This  was  the  story  as  she  knew  it. 
Of  the  fears  upon  her  lest  somehow  she  had  woven  a  veil 
about  herself  through  which  she  could  not  see  the  way,  and 
the  other  almost  formless  apprehension  lest  after  all  she  did 
not  care  so  very  much  whether  a  thing  were  true  or  false,  she 
did  not  speak.  She  could  not,  indeed,  for  these  things  were 
too  subtile  for  her  to  formulate.  Only  dread  was  upon  her 
lest  she  had  closed  doors  upon  her  free  spirit,  doors  that  in 
Bess  were  open  all  day  long  letting  in  the  sun  and  wind.  It 
was  her  first  view  of  wilful  sin.  But,  she  told  herself,  when 
these  things  set  upon  her,  she  had  at  least  begun  to  care  lest 
they  were  so.  She  had  seen  the  face  of  evil.  It  had  sickened 
her. 

"  I  see,"  Lovell  said  now,  gravely.  "Well,"  he  continued, 
and  there  was  still  no  bitterness  in  his  tone,  "there  is  money 
enough.  You  and  Bess  can  go  away  now.  You  can  go 
abroad." 

"No,"  said  Celia,  "no.  I  Ve  thought  it  out.  I  thought 
it  out  in  a  minute  last  night  before  I  went  to  sleep.  I  Ve 
made  a  bad  start.  Don't  men  start  wrong?" 

"  Yes.  You  knew  that  about  me.  You  knew  I  'd  made  a 
bad  start  and  told  me  so.  It  was  your  sweetness  about  it 
that  gave  me  a  new  chance." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  did  n't  know  anything  about  it." 

"That  day  I  came  to  see  you  in  the  arbor,"  he  reminded 
her.  He  was  passionately  eager  to  believe  that  this  at  least 


430      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

had  been  real  among  the  blossoms  that  made  the  garland  of 
his  fancy  for  her  crowning. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  remember.  Maybe  I  said  I  did. 
Have  n't  I  told  you  that  ?  You  must  believe  it.  Whatever 
I  thought  would  please  you  I  suppose  I  did/' 

Another  flower  from  the  garland  was  torn  and  ragged  at 
his  feet.  He  almost  saw  it  lying  there.  But  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  that  come  what  sad  knowledge  of  her  there  might, 
he  would  not  say  irrevocable  words. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  the  story  of  it,"  he  began.  "  I'm  a  dis 
graced  man  in  a  small  way.  It 's  only  right  for  you  to 
know." 

He  told  her  the  story  briefly,  and  she  listened. 

"No,"  she  said,  at  the  end.  "  I  thought  it  had  something 
to  do  with  money.  Mrs.  Ramsay  said  you  had  a  fortune  and 
would  n't  use  it." 

"  There  's  more  or  less,"  he  said  briefly.  "  I  put  it  away 
when  I  took  to  living  here  alone.  But  there  it  is.  It 's 
yours.  You  shall  use  it  for  yourself  and  Bess." 

Two  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks.  She  wiped  them  away, 
not  to  be  indebted  to  their  dramatic  power,  and  suddenly 
got  up  and  went  to  him. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  she  asked  him  passionately.  "What 
can  I  do?  If  there  is  any  decent  thing  a  woman  in  my  place 
can  do,  tell  me." 

He  shook  his  head  slightly  and  looked  up  at  her  with  a 
whimsical  smile.  The  irony  of  it  all  was  strong  upon  him. 
Here  was  the  world  in  summer  clothes,  here  were  brooks 
and  birds  and  the  utmost  the  created  scheme  could  do  for 
joyance.  Here  were  the  lover  and  she,  the  beloved.  What 
foolish  litany  of  remorse  it  was  to  harp  upon  old  sins,  past 
shames,  when  all  the  floods  of  life  were  mounting.  The 
poet  in  him  longed  to  break  loose,  to  soar  on  wings  into 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      431 

the  face  of  the  sun ;  but  there  was  a  canker  at  the  heart  of 
life.  The  beloved  did  not  love  him,  and  there  was  no 
upward  flight  save  with  her. 

"  You  '11  have  to  go  abroad,"  he  said,  seeking  dizzily  for 
the  commonplace.  "  You  and  Bess." 

"No,"  she  declared,  "no.  I  won't  use  your  money.  I 
won't  use  —  you." 

"  I  could  go  with  you,"  he  represented  again.  "  You  could 
take  me  —  for  a  courier." 

"No."  Then  she  essayed  timidly,  "If  I  could  stay  here 
a  little,  if  I  could  seem  to  keep  your  house  —  then  when  I 
went  finally  —  for  you  must  hate  me  —  people  won't  talk  so 
much.  I  can't,"  she  cried,  "  I  can't  have  you  ridiculous  !" 

He  drew  a  quick  breath  at  the  respite.  It  was  better  to 
have  her  so,  imprisoned,  than  to  lose  her.  But  he  answered 
only, — 

"No,  Celia.   I  don't  hate  you." 

"  I  could  seem  to  keep  your  house,"  she  was  brooding. 
"  I  could  learn  things  from  Bess.  She  knows  everything." 

He  entered  into  it  as  if  it  were  a  game. 

"  And  the  old  ladies  of  Clyde  will  call  upon  you  and  offer 
you  recipes  for  cake." 

The  slightest  touch  of  lightness  in  their  story  moved  him 
to  incredulity  that  these  things  could  be.  There  she  sat, 
more  lovely  than  he  had  ever  known  her,  softer  in  her  re 
flective  mood,  a  creature  fitted  for  all  the  needs  of  life.  She 
was  his,  so  far  as  outer  judgments  went,  and  here  it  was  sum 
mer  and  paradise  in  the  making.  Some  spell  seemed  to  have 
made  his  lovely  lady  into  a  changeling.  He  tried  impetu 
ously  to  recall  her. 

"Celia,  we  're  under  a  midsummer  madness.  Why,  you 
tell  me  these  things  as  if  they  were  real.  They  're  not. 
You  're  the  dearest,  the  loveliest — " 


432      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

There  he  stopped,  for  she  looked  at  him  practically  and 
said  in  a  quiet  earnest, — 

"  No,  I  'm  not  lovely.  I  'm  a  kind  of  a  twisted  creature. 
Bess  despises  me." 

The  look  of  pain  on  her  face  seemed  to  him  more  than  he 
could  bear. 

"  No  !  "  he  cried  hotly. 

"  Oh,  she  does  n't  even  know  it,  but  she  does  despise  me. 
And  I  've  got  to  make  myself  all  over  before  I  shall  stop 
despising  myself.  There  won't  be  time  in  one  life  either." 

Her  moodiness  alarmed  him.  Then  he  began  to  love  her 
without  any  thought  of  himself,  except  now  and  then  when 
she  was  so  desirable  to  him  that  he  had  to  cry  for  her  un- 
reasoningly. 

"Celia,"  said  he.  The  tone  made  her  look  at  him.  It  was 
full  of  a  gay  brightness.  "  Celia,  why  don't  we  play  a  little 
game  ?  We  're  two  children  living  in  the  woods.  We've  run 
away  —  from  the  world  because  it  plagued  us." 

She  was  smiling  at  him,  yet  with  rueful  tear-wet  eyes. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  I  can't  play  that  way.  I  had  to  run 
away  from  it  because  I  'd  been  naughty." 

"To  tell  the  truth,  then,  so  did  I.  So  here  we  are.  We 
both  know  just  how  naughty  we  've  been,  but  it 's  nobody's 
business  but  our  own." 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  as  nice  to  me  as  that  ?  "  she  asked  him. 

"  Just  that  nice,"  he  said.  "  We  're  two  children  in  the 
woods.  And  we  can't  talk  about  grown-up  things  because 
we  don't  know  the  grown-up  language.  We've  left  all  that 
behind  us." 

Celia  had  risen.  She  stood  looking  at  him,  something 
vivid  in  her  face. 

"  If  I  had  a  brother,"  she  said  then,  "  I  'd  like  him  to  have 
been  like  you." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      433 

This  was  wormwood,  but  it  was  a  part  of  the  bitter  course. 
Lovell  gulped  upon  it,  and  then  made  his  answer :  — 

"  Let 's  go  home  now  and  see  about  dinner." 

She  caught  his  spirit  gayly.  To  her  also  it  seemed  incred 
ible  that  last  night's  tragedy,  should  have  dawned  into  this 
garden  day. 

"  Don't  we  dig  roots  and  things  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,  for  there  's  the  wigwam.  It  '11  have  something  bub 
bling  in  the  pot.  You  Jll  see." 

So  she  walked  before  him  in  the  path  when  it  was  narrow, 
and  then  beside  him  where  there  was  room  for  two,  and  he 
prophesied  how  Mary  Manahan,  the  invisible,  would  have 
become  fired  to  wondrous  acts  with  culinary  needs  upon 
her.  Hammering,  that  cheerful  sound  if  the  heart  beats  with 
it,  was  going  on  in  the  big  house.  They  stopped  there  for  a 
ten  minutes'  oversight,  and  Hopkins  met  them  with  bluff 
good-humor  to  ask  a  dozen  questions,  and  refer  matters  to 
the  new  mistress.  The  workmen,  men  of  Clyde  all  of  them, 
who  had  known  Lovell  from  his  school-days,  glanced  up  at 
her  with  a  keen  neighborly  look  to  see  what  manner  of 
woman  she  was. 

It  left  her  with  a  quickened  heart.  The  day  went  on  with 
its  little  cares,  and  Lovell  asked  her  this  or  that,  as  if  her 
will  were  in  the  thing  he  sought.  Toward  night  again  she 
turned  to  him  wildly  when  they  had  talked  of  everything  he 
could  bring  her  to  decide  about  the  house. 

"  We  can't  keep  on  like  this,"  she  said. 

"You  hate  it  so?" 

He  was  less  tense  than  she  because  he  was  more  tired. 
The  burden  of  the  whole  was  his.  She  was  letting  herself 
sink  more  and  more  into  the  pit  of  remorse  to  fulfil  her 
punishment.  It  was  his  task  to  upbear  her.  She  shook  her 
head. 


434      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  No.  It's  not  discontent.  It 's  because  I  ought  never  to 
have  come." 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other  across  the  little  distance 
between  them,  the  chasm  of  separated  lives.  Lovell  was 
thinking,  with  a  grim  grip  on  facts  as  he  had  them.  He 
wanted  to  refer  this  case  to  life,  the  big  tribunal  of  things  as 
they  are.  Did  it  do  any  good  to  persuade  a  woman  to  love 
you  if  the  primal  spring  of  it  is  not  within  her?  Yet  she  loved 
Bess.  Now  she  showed  what  she  had  been  thinking. 

"  Bess  has  not  come  to  see  me." 

Her  mouth  drew  miserably  as  she  said  it.  Her  eyes  looked 
piteously  at  him.  Lovell  called  upon  his  inner  adjudicator 
again  to  help  him  keep  his  head. 

"Don't  you  know  why?"  he  asked  her,  and  in  spite 
of  himself  his  smile  was  bitter.  "  She  thinks  we  are  too 
happy." 

"Too  happy!" 

"  Nobody  would  run  in  upon  a  bride  and  groom  until  they 
gave  some  hint  they  were  to  be  found." 

"  You  don't  think  it 's  because  she  despises  me  ?  " 

Lovell,  obeying  the  impulse  that  seemed  to  him  sanest 
because  it  was  the  biggest,  suddenly  took  her  by  the  shoul 
ders  and  gave  her  a  little  shake. 

"  Celia,"  said  he,  as  brusquely  as  he  would,  "  if  you  were 
a  child,  I  'd  have  you  whipped."  Then  before  she  had  got 
over  the  surprise  of  it,  he  took  his  hands  away,  and  laughed, 
with  a  tender  mirth,  too,  because  she  seemed  to  him  so  dear 
and  small.  "You're  such  a  simpleton!  Here's  this  solid 
earth,  and  you  act  as  if  we  were  on  an  egg-shell,  and  you  were 
being  hunted  to  death  by  bogies." 

She  came  a  step  nearer  him,  and  whispered, — 

"  Do  you  think  I  have  hurt  my  brain  ?  She  said  so  once. 
She  thought  she  never  talked  to  me  about  the  things  she 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       435 

saw  in  me;  but  it  was  n't  so.  She  said  if  I  said  I  liked  what 
I  did  n't  like,  by  and  by  I  should  n't  know  what  I  liked 
myself." 

"Then  by  George,"  said  Lovell,  "I  hope  it's  so.  You 
said  last  night  you  did  n't  like  me.  Perhaps  you  don't  know. 
Perhaps  you  're  in  love  with  me.  Perhaps  you  adore  me, 
sweetest,  as  I  do  you.  I  do,  Celia,  I  do.  Understand  that. 
Remember  it,  too,  my  girl." 

She  looked  at  him,  fascinated,  the  warm  kindliness  of  his 
face,  the  mouth  that  encouraged,  the  eyes  that  beckoned. 
She  felt  pride  in  him,  and  Lovell  was  clever  enough  to  see 
she  liked  him  better  so  than  mawkishly  undone  for  her. 

"There  's  one  thing  I  won't  stand,"  said  he,  —  "  I  won't 
live  in  a  spider's  web  of  casuistry.  I  know  all  that  kind  of 
thing.  I  can  do  it  better  than  you  can.  You  've  got  to  be  a 
good  girl,  a  plain,  nice,  good  girl.  Now,  see  here :  Mary 
Manahan  is  n't  coming  to-night.  I  told  her  not  to.  You  put 
on  an  apron  and  wash  the  dishes." 

"  I  have  n't  any  apron,"  said  Celia  faintly. 

"  Then  you  take  a  towel  and  pin  it  round  you.  I  've  seen 
Mary  Manahan  do  it  when  she  forgot  her  apron.  I  'm  going 
over  to  shut  up  the  house.  Hopkins  has  n't  any  key." 

He  walked  out  and  left  her,  and  Celia,  in  a  daze,  did  as 
she  was  told,  and  when  he  came  back,  cheer  on  his  lips  and 
terror  in  his  heart  for  fear  he  had  lost  her,  she  was  sitting 
with  folded  hands  waiting  for  him. 

"You  are  very  patient  with  me,"  she  said,  at  once.  "  Re 
member,  it  won't  last  long.  I  'm  not  going  to  stay." 

Lovell  walked  up  to  her  and  stood  there,  making  himself 
as  immovable  within  as  he  hoped  he  looked  in  his  bodily 
estate. 

"We'll  have  that  out  now,"  he  said.  "You  're  not  going 
to  leave  me." 


436      JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  Not  going  to  ?  Not  if  I  —  " 

"Not  if  you  think  you  want  to.  You  're  going  to  stay 
right  here.  And  before  we  get  through  with  each  other 
you  're  going  to  love  me  with  all  your  heart  and  soul  and 
body-  '  She  put  up  her  head  at  that,  and  the  lightning  of 
fear  shot  over  him  lest  he  had  offended  — cc  as  I  do  you,"  he 
ended,  in  a  way  that  shut  her  lips. 

"  One  thing,"  she  essayed, — "  Bess  is  not  going  to  take 
money  from  you." 

"  Perhaps  not.  That 's  for  her  to  say." 

"  No.  It 's  for  me.  To  have  you  think  I  did  it  for 
that  —  " 

"You  told  me  you  did  —  but  never  mind." 

"And  then  to  have  it  succeed — to  make  use  of  you —  I 
should  kill  myself." 

She  looked  wild-eyed  now,  and  he  wondered  whether  he 
was  pressing  her  too  far. 

"  We  don't  kill  ourselves,"  he  said  coldly,  "if  we're  well- 
bred  people.  We  play  the  game." 

At  this  she  stiffened  perceptibly. 

"And  a  part  of  the  game,"  he  went  on — "Do  you 
mind  ?  "  He  got  up  and  took  his  pipe.  She  shook  her  head 
and  Lovell  began  to  smoke.  He  did  it  very  seldom,  some 
times  not  for  weeks  together,  but  it  seemed  to  him  a  helpful 
stage  accessory  at  the  moment,  —  "a  part  of  the  game  until 
we  move  into  the  other  house  where  there  's  room  for  help, 
is  doing  what  work  Mary  Manahan  can't  get  round  to.  I  '11 
see  to  Hopkins.  You  see  to  the  house." 

The  tone,  not  the  words,  struck  fire  from  her. 

"  You  speak  to  me,"  she  said  hotly,  forgetting  her  estab 
lished  despair,  "  as  if  I  were  a  squaw." 

Lovell  puffed  a  moment,  and  held  down  the  beautiful 
words  beginning  with  "liege-lady"  that  came  running  in,  a 


JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY       437 

lovely  troop,  to  assure  him  they  were  there  and  ready  to 
be  used.  "  Do  I  ?  "  said  he.  "  Maybe." 

But  immediately  on  the  heels  of  that  he  had  a  page  to  read 
her  of  Winterbourne's  translation,  not  saying  the  English 
words  were  his,  and  she  quieted  under  the  lovely  flow  of  it. 
But  she  rose  early  and  took  her  candle.  He  had  put  aside 
his  pipe. 

"Wait,"  he  said. 

She  had  turned  away  with  her  good-night.  She  looked 
soft-eyed  and  sad.  He  held  out  his  hand,  and  at  the  in 
stant  saw  the  little  warning  thrill  in  her,  a  start  away  from 
him. 

"  No,"  said  he.  "  Don't  be  afraid."  Then  she  looked  at 
him  and  he  took  her  hand  and  they  stood  facing  each  other. 
"  Don't  think  of  that  again,"  said  Lovell,  as  if  it  were  a  com 
mand. 

"  What  ?  "  she  asked  faintly. 

"Don't  think  I  'm  going  to  kiss  you.  I  never  shall  — 
not  till  you  want  me  to.  Good-night." 

She  left  him  to  his  dreams,  his  waking  ones,  for  tired  as 
he  was  he  could  not  sleep  at  once.  All  manner  of  his  long- 
loved  desires  had  been  resurrected  in  him  —  the  great  colony 
known  as  youth.  She  would  have  wondered,  if  she  could 
have  seen  them  thronging,  there  were  so  many  and  of  such 
brave  array.  Old  stories,  chivalry  and  faerie,  romance  of  love 
and  death,  contributed  their  names.  He  was  in  a  state  of 
quickened  life.  For  the  body  and  its  demands,  crudely 
deified  by  materialists,  he  did  not  at  that  moment  care  a 
straw.  He  wanted  his  wife,  the  soul  of  her,  the  ultimate  es 
sence,  not  possession,  against  a  will  not  with  him.  He  saw 
the  vision  as  romance  saw  it  imperfectly,  and  as  he  had  for 
gotten  to  see  it  while  he  minded  his  book  in  these  lethargic 
days.  The  poets  even  were  there.  They  thronged  about 


438       JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

him,  bidding  him  remember.  What  should  he  remember? 
The  binding  of  the  bride  to  the  saddlebow  by  his  arm  and 
his  blended  will,  the  quest  that  he  should  be  brave  and  true. 
And  to  that  end,  he  bade  himself  sleep,  to  wake  on  the 
morrow  a  sane  man. 


XXXIV 

BESS  sought  out  Winterbourne  in  his  seclusion  by 
the  window  where  he  sat,  omitting  to  light  his  lamp, 
and  thought.    She  looked,  in  the  dusk,  subdued  and 
drooping.  A  part  of  her  cares  were  over,  for  Mrs.  Ramsay 
had  gone  home. 

"  Sit  down,  child,"  said  Winterbourne. 

But  she  continued  to  stand,  her  hands  clasped  before  her 
rather  like  a  suppliant. 

"  Do  you  think,  sir,"  she  said,  "  I  might  go  and  see  her 
to-morrow?" 

"Who?   Mrs.  Ramsay?" 
I     "No,  sir,— Celia." 

"  Why  not,  for  heaven's  sake  ?  " 

"  She  might  n't  want  me.  If  she  is  so  happy,  will  she  want 
me?" 

The  tone  was  profoundly  sad.  Winterbourne  had  an  in 
stinct  that  he  'd  better  tell  her  a  story  as  he  did  the  children 
when  they  looked  like  tears.  But  there  was  no  story  except, 
in  a  metaphor  he  chose  to  use  for  himself,  that  he  meant  pre 
sently  to  have  a  duel  with  his  wife  from  which  one  or  both 
of  them  would  not  return. 

"Of  course,"  he  said.  "Go  and  see  her  by  all  means.  Go 
to-morrow  morning.  Bess,  are  you  tired  out  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  clear-eyed  honesty. 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Ramsay  's  off,  at  least.  Bess,  what  is  to  be 
come  of  that  woman  ?  Is  she  going  batting  round  same  as 
ever  and  let  her  children  run  to  weed  ? " 


440      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

Bess  considered. 

"  I  guess  she  's  thought  a  good  deal  about  the  children 
while  she  could  n't  see  'em,"  she  confessed.  "  She  never  saw 
'em  much  before,  except  morning  and  night.  She  did  n't 
sense  how  dirty  they  were." 

"And  yet,"  he  rallied  her,  "you  want  to  vote.  Hunter 
says  you  do.  Don't  you  see  what  it  makes  of  a  woman  to 
hurl  herself  about  trying  to  vote  and  putting  her  ringer 
in  every  individual  pie  and  leaving  her  own  pie  un 
baked?" 

"Well,"  said  Bess  practically,  "if  Mrs.  Ramsay  could 
vote,  she  would  n't  have  to  take  so  much  time  trying  to.  She 
could  just  go  and  do  it,  same  as  men  do,  and  then  spend 
the  rest  of  the  day  at  home,  same  as  men  do  in  their  offices. 
That 's  all." 

Winterbourne  stared  at  her  and  then  threw  back  his  head 
and  laughed. 

"Excellently  reasoned,  wench,"  said  he.  "And  now,  how 
about  your  own  career  ?  The  last  time  you  mentioned  it  a 
man  had  asked  you  to  marry  him,  and  you  concluded  with 
a  form  of  logic  I  can't  follow,  that  you  were  going  to  make 
yourself  into  a  kind  of  a  creation — a  wedding-cake  affair — 
something  called  a  lady.  Was  that  it?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Now,  Bess,  what  is  a  lady  ?  Do  you  want  to  be  like 
Mrs.  Ramsay?" 

No,  she  did  n't.   From  her  face  that  was  plain. 

"  Do  you  want  to  be  like  Celia  ? " 

There,  though  she  flushed  and  looked  imploring  as  if 
begging  him  to  leave  her  darling  uncriticised,  she  would  say 
nothing,  and  he  knew  he  should  gain  no  more  by  using 
Catherine  for  a  standard. 

"  Now,  Bess,"   said  he,  "  what 's  all  this   about  being  a 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      441 

lady  ?  Sit  down,  or  I  shall  have  to  get  up.  If  you  're  going 
to  be  one,  I  Ve  got  to  treat  you  scrupulously." 

So  she  sat  down. 

"  I  don't  even  use  good  grammar,"  she  said,  in  her  old 
formula  and  with  a  shamed  eloquence  of  look. 

"The  mischief  you  don't!  What  else?" 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  laid  it  on  his  page. 

"I  can't  read  your  books." 

"  Well,  if  you  'd  lived  fifty  years  ago,  you  'd  have  been 
unladylike  if  you  could.  That 's  Greek,  simpleton.  You  can 
read  English,  can't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir.   I  do  when  I  get  a  chance." 

"Now  what  do  you  read,  Bess?"  he  asked,  with  curiosity. 
"  What  are  your  books  ? " 

She  hung  her  head. 

"  I  don't  like  most  things,  sir,"  she  said.  "  That 's  the 
trouble.  I  like  —  poetry." 

"  God  save  you,  child,  you  like  poetry  ?  Where  'd  you 
get  it?" 

"There  were  some  books  at  the  sanatorium.  I  read  them 
when  I  swept  the  room." 

"  When  she  swept  the  room  !  Hear  her,  gods,  the  little 
slavey !  Well,  whose  poems  were  they  ?  Mr.  Longfel 
low's?" 

"  No,  sir.  They  were  there,  too.  But  there  were  some  I 
read  more.  I  could  have  read  them  all  night." 

"Whose  were  they?" 
f.    "His  name  was  Keats — John  Keats." 

Winterbourne  could  have  cried  over  her,  she  seemed  so 
exquisitely  and  particularly  the  child  of  his  own  spirit. 

"  Bess,"  said  he,  "  do  you  suppose  you  want  to  be  a 
learned  pig?'* 

She  understood  him  absolutely.  That  was  her  way  with 


442      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

him.  The  words  might  be  uncouth  or  foreign  to  her,  but  she 
always  caught  their  meaning.  It  was  like  a  signal  code. 

"I  want,"  said  she,  groping  for  an  answer,  "  I  want  to  do 
the  best  I  can." 

He,  in  his  turn,  understood.  Was  it  not  another  version  of 
Jean  Paul's  "  I  have  made  what  I  could  of  the  stuff"?  He 
got  up.  His  eyes  were  wet. 

"  Good-night,  child,"  he  said.  "  Go  and  find  your  sister 
in  the  morning.  I've  got  a  lamp  somewhere.  1  '11  rub  it  up, 
and  we'll  see." 

The  next  morning,  by  the  light  of  day  with  no  glamour 
in  it,  he  went  to  his  wife's  chamber.  It  was  to  be  what  he 
had  been  calling,  in  his  mind,  his  duel  with  her.  She  sat 
there  by  the  window,  trig  and  fine  in  her  short  dress,  ready, 
he  guessed,  for  him  to  ask  her  to  go  out  a  pace.  She  was 
pale,  her  face  looked  harried,  and  she  was  evidently  having 
distressing  thoughts.  But  they  were  of  Celia,  not  of  him. 

"  John,"  she  said  at  once,  "what  made  her  do  it  ?  In  that 
way,  that  horrible,  uncouth  way  ?  What  made  her  ?  " 

Winterbourne  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  down  by  her. 

"  Let  Celia  be,"  he  said.  "She's  gone  into  another  wig 
wam.  She  's  not  our  business  any  more." 

"She's  my  responsibility — " 

Winterbourne  leaned  forward  and  looked  her  in  the  face. 

"  Catherine,"  said  he,  "pay  attention  to  me.  I  've  come  to 
propose  to  you." 

The  homely  phrase  arrested  her.  The  color  came,  and  she 
waited  with  parted  lips. 

"  I  want  to  propose  to  you,"  said  he  slowly,  to  give  her 
time,  "to  go  on  pilgrimage  with  me." 

"With  you?  "  She  was  more  than  ready. 

"  I  want  you  to  go  abroad  with  me,  for  six  months,  a  year 
perhaps." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      443 

"We  two  alone?  " 

"  No.  I  intend  to  take  Dwight  Hunter.  I  intend  taking 
Bess." 

She  could  not  make  out  the  combination,  nor  did  he  mean 
she  should.  He  simply  meant  to  tear  out  his  own  roots  from 
the  earth  they  were  delighting  in,  and  give  himself  to  the 
wind  of  destiny  for  the  sake  of  something  other  than  him 
self. 

<c  Catherine,"  said  he, cc  there 's  lots  I  Ve  got  to  say  to  you. 
I  don't  know  how.  We  Ve  come  together  again.  It's  by 
your  will.  I  suppose  we  shall  stay  together.  That  '11  be  by 
mine.  By  mine  distinctly.  But  we  Ve  got  to  be  good  fellows. 
We  Ve  got  to  let  youth  have  its  way  about  us."  She  opened 
her  lips  to  say,  "  I  don't  feel  old,"  but  he  forestalled  her:  — 
"  You  're  not  old.  I  'm  not  either,  though  I  'm  a  thousand 
years  older  than  you  are.  But  spring  won't  come  again. 
Don't  you  see,  we  have  one  day  of  life.  Dawn  won't  come 
again.  But  midday  's  here.  It 's  the  edge  of  the  afternoon. 
The  sun  is  n't  in  our  eyes  as  it  was  in  the  morning.  We  Ve 
got  to  see  things  as  they  are.  And  we  '11  see  'em  together,  if 
you  agree,  like  good  soldiers.  Will  you,  old  friend  ?  " 

No  one  but  the  woman  who  has  been  worshipped  and  can 
not  resign  her  sovereignty  knows  the  bitterness  of  being 
called  to  action  when  she  is  listening  to  be  wooed  to  love. 
But  there  was  no  doubt  that,  in  spite  of  all  her  clamoring, 
he,  as  he  was,  was  dear  to  her.  Not  knowing  him  yet,  very 
well,  she  had  the  luck  to  recognize  in  this  his  call  to  her, 
the  last  one  perhaps  he  would  ever  give,  and,  unless  she 
would  lose  him  utterly,  to  be  in  some  form  accepted.  And 
she  gave  herself  as  entirely  as  the  bride,  and  as  ignorantly. 
But  she  had  the  one  inevitable  question  :  — 

"  John,  is  it  for  Bess  ?  " 

He  answered  instantly. 


444      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  Yes.  Not  to  form  her,  not  to  pester  her.  Let  her  alone. 
Let  her  sing  or  not  sing.  Give  her  her  head.  Are  you  up  to 
that?" 

Yes,  she  was  up  to  that.  She  was  up  to  anything  he  chose 
to  ask  of  her.  So  high  was  the  thought  of  the  quest  in  her 
that  she  was  abjuring  the  old  jealousies. 

"And  we  can't  travel  like  royalty,"  he  said.  "But  you 
shall  be  comfortable.  There  's  enough  for  that.  And  we  '11 
come  back  here  after,  and  maybe  I  can  buy  an  annuity  for 
you  —  for  may  be  the  gods — "  He  paused  there,  but  he  had 
thought  for  one  hopeful  moment  that  the  gods  might  draw 
him  elsewhere  to  a  kinder  quest. 

He  got  up,  bent  over  her  in  a  courtly  way  and  kissed 
her  hand.  And  though  he  left  her  gravely,  Catherine,  sitting 
there  with  the  delight  upon  her  of  doing  his  will,  felt  hap 
piness  come  flooding  in. 

Winterbourne  gave  himself  no  time  to  reconsider.  He 
went  at  once  to  find  Dwight  Hunter,  at  home  and  fuming 
because  some  man  summoned  had  not  appeared.  Dwight 
looked  harassed,  angry  like  a  nervous  animal,  and  his  boots 
were  caked  with  soil.  Winterbourne  began  on  him  at  once  :  — 

"  Dwight,  we  're  going  abroad,  my  wife  and  I." 

Dwight  stood  still,  and  looked  at  him,  a  question  inten 
sifying  his  face. 

"  She  '11  be  with  Celia  ?  "  he  managed. 

"She's  going  with  us." 

Rage  leaped  into  his  eyes,  but  he  said  nothing. 

"  This  is  what  I  want,"  said  Winterbourne.  He  was 
overawing  him  by  the  direct  glance,  as  he  had  overawed  his 
wife.  "  I  want  you  to  throw  over  your  dickering  —  throw  it 
on  Lovell's  shoulders.  It  '11  be  good  for  him.  He  's  a  poet. 
He  's  elected  to  be  a  greasy  citizen.  And  I  want  vou  to  go 
with  us." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      445 

Hunter  kept  on  staring  at  him.  He  could  not  believe  it. 

"You  fool!"  Winterbourne  broke  out,  "don't  you  see 
what  I  'm  offering  you  ?  I  'm  going  to  give  her  a  holiday, 
but  you  —  don't  you  see,  you  dolt,  the  part  you  're  cast  for  ? 
Italy,  man,  and  if  you  can't  turn  her  head  in  Italy,  you're 
a  jackass  and  don't  deserve  her."  He  flung  himself  about 
and  was  striding  off.  He  heard  the  heavy  boots  behind  him. 
"Take  it  or  leave  it,"  Winterbourne  called.  He  was  in  a 
blind  rage  at  life  for  constraining  him  to  go  on  pilgrimage 
again  and  drag  these  impedimenta.  "  You  've  had  the  offer. 
Take  it  or  leave  it." 

Hunter's  hand  was  on  his.  Winterbourne  stopped  to  grip 
it,  and  then  looked  into  the  young  face  and  saw  it  glowing. 

"When  do  we  sail?  "  asked  Hunter. 

But  what  did  Bess  say  when  she  was  told  the  door  had 
opened  to  her?  She  was  all  dressed  conformably  in  crisp 
things,  ready,  even  he  could  see,  to  make  the  call  her  sister 
would  commend. 

"  Bess,"  said  he,  "  you  're  going  abroad  in  a  few  weeks, 
you  and  my  wife  and  Dwight  Hunter  and  I." 

He  thought  he  had  never  seen  eyes  widen  so  startlingly. 
The  rosy  color  poured  into  her  face,  and  she  was  living 
beauty.  But  what  she  said  was  this,— 

"  We  can't  all  go.  Who  '11  get  in  the  carrots?  " 

Winterbourne  beat  the  ground  with  his  stick  and  wanted 
to  yell  in  pure  delight. 

"And  she  can't  go,"  said  Bess  firmly,  "until  she's  seen 
a  doctor." 

"  Seen  a  doctor  ?  You  young  filibuster,  you  're  her  doctor 
and  she  's  .getting  well." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  ain't,"  said  Bess  wisely.  "  I  should  n't  think 
of  taking  her  off  so  far  unless  a  doctor  said  we  could." 


446      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

"  You  don't  believe  in  doctors." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do.  Only  if  she  'd  had  one  then,  she  'd  have 
settled  right  down  on  him." 

How  did  she  know  Catherine  so  well,  he  wondered,  the 
abandon  of  her  rush,  the  intense  conviction  with  which  she 
would  have  become  an  invalid? 

"  So  you  had  your  doctor  round  the  corner,  you  quack, 
taking  the  bread  out  of  his  mouth  and  ready  to  put  your 
hand  on  him  if  you  needed  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Bess  absorbedly.  "  But  you  call  him  in 
now.  You  ask  her  to  see  him.  He'll  tell  her  she  can  go." 
She  walked  away  a  step  on  her  errand,  and  then  turned  and 
came  back  to  him.  "  What 's  Dwight  Hunter  going  for  ? " 
she  asked  abruptly. 

"He's  going  to  tug  your  shawl-strap,"  — shawl-straps 
were  much  used  when  he  had  gone  before,  —  "  and  leave  me 
a  hand  to  carry  my  wife's.  I  'm  going  to  make  him  into  a 
slavey  for  the  whole  of  us.  He 's  young  and  I 'm  old.  Don't 
you  ever  forget  your  daddy 's  old." 

What  she  was  thinking  he  did  not  know,  but  in  a  moment 
her  face  cleared. 

"  Well,"  she  said  conclusively,  "  it'll  do  him  good.  Maybe 
he  won't  stay  with  us  long." 

Then  she  went  on  to  Celia,  who  saw  her  coming  and  waited 
for  her  in  the  doorway.  Celia  had  been  alone  most  of  the 
morning,  peeping  into  her  trunks,  wondering  what  she 
should  do  with  her  things,  whether  she  should  unpack  them, 
as  she  had  done  by  the  more  delicate,  or  assume  she  was 
going  away.  She  waited  for  Bess  now  in  a  great  longing  and 
excitement.  Bess,  she  knew,  would  make  all  well.  There 
would  be  no  secrets  between  them,  now  things  had  gone 
so  far,  no  pretences  that  the  present  state  was  not  all  misery. 
Yet  when  Bess  came  up  the  steps,  her  eager  face  alight,  Celia 


JOHN    WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      447 

forgot  she  could  throw  herself  into  her  arms  and  sob  out  her 
sorrows  there.  She  did  kiss  her  sister  tenderly,  but  she  sud 
denly  seemed  to  herself  a  different  person.  Was  it  partisan 
ship  of  Lovell  because  she  was  in  his  house,  and  it  was  only 
decent  to  be  loyal  to  him  ?  Whatever  it  was,  there  was 
something  immutably  fixed  in  her  to  keep  the  curtain  before 
his  ignominy  of  living  with  an  alien  wife.  They  went  into 
the  house,  hand  clasped  in  hand,  and  Celia,  not  knowing 
what  she  was  about  to  say,  adventured,  — 

"The  other  house  is  getting  on." 

"  Do  you  like  it,  dear  ?  "  Bess  asked  her  tenderly.  It 
seemed  wonderful  to  her  to  find  Celia's  mind  fixed  upon 
houses  and  furnishings. 

"  It 's  very  pretty.  Yes,  it 's  lovely.   It 's  so  big  and  old." 

"  Shall  you  have  dotted  muslin  ?  " 

"  Dotted  muslin  ?  " 

"Yes,  for  curtains.  It  always  seemed  to  me  the  prettiest 
that  ever  was." 

Celia  determined,  in  a  rush,  that  if  she  stayed  to  order 
curtains,  they  should  be  dotted.  Then  Bess  told  her  news, 
and  Celia  sat  and  looked  at  her.  It  was  incredible.  Bess  was 
going  abroad,  and  Celia  was  not  giving  it  to  her,  nor  was 
there  mention  of  her  going  too.  How  should  there  be?  Here 
she  was  in  her  house  of  life.  Who  would  think  of  dragging 
her  out  of  it  to  lesser  than  the  ecstatic  joys  that  dwell  in 
married  love  ?  But  because  Bess  knew  no  more  about  plans 
and  seasons,  they  talked  of  other  things,  —  of  housekeep 
ing  and  little  practical  ways  Celia  had  never  conceived  of 
until  here  was  a  home  of  her  own  and  the  care  of  it.  When 
Bess  rose  to  go,  she  stood  a  moment,  daring  something. 
Then  she  said, — 

"  Had  n't  you  better  run  round  and  see  her  pretty 
soon  ? " 


448      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

Celia  looked  unmoved.  She  was  not  conscious  of  wanting 
to  see  Catherine. 

"She  's  fond  of  you,"  Bess  insisted. 

Celia's  eyebrows  gloomed.  She  seemed  to  be  thinking 
back  over  an  unkindly  time. 

"  I  '11  come,"  she  said  then.  "  Yes,  I  '11  come." 

They  kissed,  and  Bess  went  away,  and  Celia  sat  with  idle 
hands,  thinking.  It  was  about  Bess.  The  distinction  of  her, 
the  difference  between  her  and  the  crying,  whining  world, 
was  that  she  did  something  all  the  time.  She  set  her  hand 
to  things.  It  evidently  was  the  way  to  keep  alive.  Then 
Lovell  came,  hot  and  dishevelled.  He  had  been  working  at 
the  house  with  the  men,  to  speed  things  on  the  faster.  It 
was  twelve  o'clock  and  Mary  Manahan  had  not  appeared. 
Lovell  had  met  her  in  the  road.  She  had  been  sent  for,  to 
see  a  sister  come  from  far  to  spend  the  day. 

"And  there's  no  dinner,"  Celia  said,  aghast. 

"There's  bread,"  said  Lovell,  "milk,  cold  meat.  Buck 
up,  squaw,  and  eat  what  there  is  in  the  wigwam." 

And  Celia  laughed.  The  sound  of  it,  free,  unconsidered, 
threw  him  off  his  seat  of  self-control.  He  wanted  to  ask  her 
if  she  could  do  it  again,  perhaps,  if  he  would  give  himself  to 
witticism  as  choice.  But  she  was  spreading  the  cloth,  and  he 
would  not  hinder  her. 

"  Bess  was  in,"  she  said.  Ah,  that  was  why  she  looked  so 
happy.  "  She  's  going  abroad." 

"She?   Who  else?" 

She  told  him. 

"  You '11  want  to  go,  Celia,"  said  Lovell  soberly.  The 
light  had  gone  out,  for  him.  He  felt  tired. 

"  No,"  she  said.  She  was  pouring  milk  into  the  glasses. 

"  Here,  don't  you  give  me  all  the  cream.  I  like  it  pale. 
You  can  go,  Celia.  You  shall." 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      449 

She  heartened  herself  to  glance  at  him. 

"  You  want  me  to  ?  " 

He  would  not  answer  that. 

"  What  did  Bess  think  ? "  he  asked. 

"  About  what  ?  " 

"  About  you.    What  it 's  best  for  you  to  do." 

She  turned  to  him  now  in  what  seemed  a  raging  pride. 

"Bess?  I  shouldn't  ask  Bess.  Do  you  think  I'd  tell 
Bess  any  of  the  things  you're  —  suffering?" 

She  went  tremblingly  about  her  tasks  and  Lovell  dared 
not  look  at  her  lest  the  pathos  and  loveliness  of  her  undo 
him  quite  and  make  him  spoil  the  good  begun.  By  and  by 
she  stopped  and  surveyed  the  table  with  an  anxious  care. 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  appealed  to  him,  "do  you  think 
that 's  right  ?  " 

Lovell  made  himself  answer  soberly,  — 

"  Yes.    Looks  to  me  all  right." 


XXXV 

IT  was  on  a  day  at  the  end  of  the  hurried  weeks  before 
the  Winterbournes'  sailing  that  Lovell  came  into  the 
little  house  to  tell  Celia  the  big  one  was  finished.  She 
sat  there  by  the  window  —  for  it  was  in  the  first  warmth  of 
September,  when  you  could  not  get  too  much  of  summer 
going  —  and  read  in  a  small  green  book.  This,  as  he  entered, 
she  dropped  at  her  side,  but  he  knew  the  cover.  The  poems 
were  his,  and  this  was  the  first  time  Celia  was  really  reading 
them.  She  looked  at  him  differently,  he  thought,  with  a 
question  unexpressed. 

"What  are  you  thinking?"  he  asked  her.  He  sat  down 
on  the  other  end  of  her  couch  and  gazed  at  her  with  tired 
eyes.  The  house  was  done.  Hopkins  and  his  neighborly 
men  had  gone.  Paint  would  need  more  drying,  but  it  would 
not  be  long  before  life  could  begin  there.  But  of  what  com 
plexion  it  would  be,  neither  of  them  knew.  "  What  were 
you  thinking?"  Lovell  asked. 

She  drew  her  brows  together  slightly.  He  saw,  as  he  had 
lately,  with  a  pang,  that  she  considered  carefully  before  she 
spoke,  and  spoke  exactly.  Did  she  think  herself  a  subject 
for  morbid  psychology?  That  was  too  cruel. 

"  I  Ve  been  thinking  I  don't  know  you,"  she  said. 

The  answer  to  that  was,  "  And  I  don't  know  you."  But 
he  said, — 

"  Nobody  knows  anybody  except  in  two  ways." 

"  What  are  they  ?  " 

cc  Likeness  —  or  passionate  love." 

She  pondered  that  for  a  moment. 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      451 

"  There  's  sympathy,"  she  said  timidly,  because  he  seemed 
to  her  so  much  cleverer  than  she. 

"  Passionate  love  is  sympathy  —  the  nth  power.'*  He  took 
the  book  from  her  hand  and  furled  leaf  after  leaf  and  hooted 
at  it  all.  Then  he  shut  it  and  threw  it  on  the  floor.  "  Poor 
young  devil! " 

"  Why  ? " 

"  Because  he  thought  the  world  was  his." 

"  And  was  n't  it  ?  Why  was  n't  it  ?  " 

"  He  turned  coward.   He  lost  his  grip." 

Celia  had  a  swift  vision  of  the  calmness  of  his  binding  her 
down  to  a  sane  life  with  him,  and,  without  violence  of  com 
mand,  forcing  her  acquiescence. 

"  You  have  n't  lost  your  grip  on  me,"  she  wanted  to  say, 
and  dared  not,  knowing  she  could  not  foresee  the  answer  to 
that.  "  But  you  Ve  got  your  grip  again  ?  "  she  hesitated. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  was  then?"  He  gave  the  book 
on  the  floor  a  tap  with  his  foot.  "  I  was  young." 

"  But  you  're  young  now." 

There  were  maternal  stirrings  in  her,  desires  that  he 
should  be  assuaged  and  comforted.  Her  eyes  were  dewy  as 
they  looked  on  him,  but  that  he  did  not  see.  He  was  not 
meeting  her  eyes,  these  days,  being  plainly  afraid  of  the 
shock  and  surprise  of  orbed  splendor  under  their  fringing 
shade. 

"  I  don't  mean  years,"  he  said.  "  It 's  something  else. 
When  you  're  really  young  you  —  walk  in  beauty.  The 
smoke  out  there  —  that  fall  look  over  the  hills  and  river  — 
that 's  sacrificial  smoke  rising  to  the  Most  High.  And  the 
gods  —  Winterbourne's  gods  —  are  all  about,  and  the  Most 
High  sits  up  there  above  them  to  make  it  right,  and  does  n't 
care  which  we  worship  because  it 's  all  one."  He  seemed  to 


452      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

be  speaking  now  out  of  a  dream  of  the  smoky  day,  the  mist 
in  his  eyes,  and  speaking,  he  half  felt,  to  Winterbourne,  who 
understood  things  so  and  who  let  himself  loose  to  talk  in 
just  this  way.  How  Winterbourne  had  led  him  !  until  he 
turned  away  for  this  paradise  of  a  woman's  eyes.  "  And  the 
woman  you  love,"  he  went  on  drunkenly,  beguiled  by  the 
silence  and  the  slumbrous  haze,  "  you  see  her  through  veils. 
She  is  the  hidden,  the  unapproachable  —  " 

Celia  got  noiselessly  on  her  feet.  She  could  not  bear  it, 
the  sharp  wonder  of  hearing  him  tell  what  the  woman  should 
be  and  she  was  not.  Lovell,  too,  came  awake,  and  passed  a 
hand  over  his  eyes.  But  the  dream  was  not  over.  "  She 
looks  to  him  — "  he  went  on,  trying  to  recapture  that  vision 
of  the  bending,  floating  other  than  himself  which  himself 
had  inevitably  to  pursue  —  "  she  looks  —  " 

Now  he  was  on  his  feet  staring  at  her,  and  Celia  looked 
at  him  in  flooding  prayer  that  whatever  ill  he  saw  in  her  he 
would  not  tell  her.  And  Lovell  saw  in  her  that  she  longed 
only  to  be  his  handmaid,  and  yet  here  was  his  decreed  lady. 
"  She  looks,"  he  said,  while  his  hands  found  her,  "  she  looks 
like  you." 

That  night  it  was  that  Winterbourne  went  to  see  the  chil 
dren  for  the  last  half-hour.  But  they  were  in  bed,  all  but 
Tonty,  who  knew  he  would  come,  and  had  slipped  into  her 
little  wrapper  and  run  down  to  the  nursery,  where  she  sat 
watching.  Mother,  too,  was  in  bed.  She  spent  a  great  many 
hours  there,  but  between  times  she  was  on  one  domestic 
raid  after  another,  drilling  the  children  and  the  new  cook  in 
the  minutiae  of  life,  but  pleasing  them  on  the  whole  because, 
though  exacting  and  terribly  clear-sighted,  she  was  calm  and 
kind.  Winterbourne  came  in  softly.  He  would  have  come 
earlier  save  that  he  wanted  the  decks  clear  of  Mrs.  Ramsay, 


JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY      453 

and  he  knew  Tonty  would  be  waiting.  In  a  moment  they 
were  established,  he  in  the  big  chair,  and  she,  now  there 
were  no  smaller  ones  to  favor,  in  his  arms,  his  cheek  against 
her  silky  head. 

"  Timmy  's  going  to  school,"  said  she. 
1     "  Where  ?  "  asked  Winterbourne. 

"  Mother  found  her  wedding-skirt  all  sewed  over  with 
flowers,  and  she  's  sent  him  to  the  art  school." 

"Will  Timmy  like  it?" 

Tonty  did  n't  know.  She  had  an  impression  that  it  would 
mean  the  safety  of  bits  of  silk  and  cushions.  They  wouldn't 
be  sewed  over  with  flowers  any  more. 

"Tonty,"  said  Winterbourne,  "you  know  I  'm  going  to 
sea.  I  'm  going  to  be  the  Flying  Dutchman." 

"Oh!"  she  cried.  She  knew  that  story,  and  it  troubled 
her  on  a  windy  night. 

"  Don't  you  fret,"  said  Winterbourne,  seeing  he  had 
chosen  ill.  "  There  is  n't  any  Dutchman.  It 's  only  a  rein 
carnation  myth." 

"Oh  !  "  said  Tonty,  quite  satisfied:  for  though  she  might 
be  staggered  at  long  words,  the  tone  he  put  them  in  assured 
her  they  were  innocuous. 

"Tonty,"  said  Winterbourne,  "I  '11  tell  you  a  little  mite 
of  a  story.  Once  there  was  a  boy  named  Jackie.  And  he  had 
two  little  girl-children.  One  was  named  Tonty  and  one  was 
named  Bess." 

"Me?" 

"  You  ?  I  should  say  not.   Much  nicer ! " 

But  she  knew. 

"  And  one  walked  on  one  side  of  him  and  held  his  hand, 
and  the  other  walked  on  the  other  side  of  him  and  held  his 
hand.  And  lots  of  other  children  held  on  to  him,  some  to 
his  coat-tails  and  some  to  his  arms,  and  some  sat  on  his  feet 


454      JOHN   WINTERBOURNE'S   FAMILY 

and  he  could  hardly  walk.  But  he  knew  he  'd  got  to  walk." 
He  stopped  here,  musing.  The  vision  of  the  endless  road 
was  strong  upon  him.  If  he  could  say,  "  This  is  my  life  and 
I  've  lived  more  than  half  of  it,  well  or  ill.  I  won't  trouble 
myself  about  the  rest !  "  But  it  was  all  going  to  be  his  life, 
the  whole  endless  road,  and  if  he  stopped  here  and  sat  down 
under  a  tree,  it  would  only  mean  so  many  steps  not  done. 
"  He  had  a  lot  to  carry,"  said  Winterbourne  pathetic 
ally,  humorously  too.  "He  'd  got  his  father  and  his  grand 
father  and  his  great-grandfather,  and  so  many  more  they 
made  a  pile  sky-high.  And  some  of  'em  that  clung  to  his 
elbows  were  heavy  as  lead.  But  the  two  little  girls  that  held 
his  hands  —  " 

"Me." 

"  And  Bess.  They  each  carried  a  little  lantern,  and  that 
lighted  the  way.  So  he  set  out  quite  bravely,  and  the  two 
little  girls  carried  the  lanterns  splendidly  —  " 

"  Did  they  go  out  ?  "  Tonty  asked,  with  an  anguished  ap 
prehension.  "  Oh,  did  mine  go  out?  " 

"  No,  sir  !  They  burned  forever  and  ever.  Lanterns  never 
really  go  out.  Don't  you  forget  that." 


THE  WARES  OF  EDGEFIELD 

By  ELIZA  ORNE  WHITE 

"A  novel  where  quality  is  as  true  and  fine  as  its  at 
mosphere  is  sweet  and  wholesome.  ...  It  is  not  often 
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sphere  of  perfect  naturalness  is  so  distinctive  a  feature 
as  it  is  in  this  latest  of  Miss  White's  fictions." — Bos 
ton  Transcript. 

"  The  whole  story  is  cheering,  mentally  comforting, 
and  lively  in  action."  —  Philadelphia  Record. 

"A  truly  entertaining  domestic  novel.  .  .  .  The  history 
of  two  generations  of  people  of  an  excellent  New 
England  type  is  treated  with  feminine  shrewdness 
and  sympathy."  -  —  New  York  Tribune. 

"  Not  the  least  charm  of  this  quiet  story  of  New  Eng 
land  life  is  the  spirit  of  tempered  optimism." — Bos 
ton  Herald. 


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By  KATE  DOUGLAS  WIGGIN 


"The  sweetest  and  simplest  of  stories.  .  .  .  Sue  is  a 
fit  companion  for  Rebecca,  Timothy  and  all  the  other 
lovable  Wiggin  children."  —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"  A  book  of  singular  charm  and  decided  novelty.  .  .  . 
Reflects  vividly  yet  delicately  the  peace  and  simplicity 
of  a  Shaker  community."  —Chicago  News. 

"  A  delightful  story  .  .  .  very  winsome,  full  of  human 
touches,  and  brilliant  here  and  there  with  the  flashing 
humor  which  radiates  all  of  this  novelist's  work." 

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THE  STORY  OF  THYRZA 


By  ALICE  BROWN 


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perament  at  once  splendid  and  appalling.  ...  It  is  not 
enough  to  say  that  the  book  is  a  study  in  American 
psychology ;  it  must  be  added  that  it  is  an  excellent 
example  of  American  literary  methods." 

Chicago  Tribune. 

"  Thyrza,  a  creature  combined  of  compelling  imag 
ination,  soaring  fantasy,  Puritan  iron,  and  sacrificial 
fire,  is  an  appealing  figure,  illumined  with  more  of  the 
light  of  genuine  inspiration  than  one  often  finds  in 
American  novels."  —  New  York  Times. 

"Altogether,  without  Thomas  Hardy's  melodrama, 
the  people  are  reminiscent  of  his  peasants,  with 
strange  passionate  natures  hidden  within  dumb  patient 
breasts ;  simpler  and  in  many  ways  more  convincing." 

Boston  Globe. 


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